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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23652964">Finding Sherlock</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pattydcm/pseuds/Pattydcm'>Pattydcm</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Sherlock (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>M/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 22:35:02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>55,478</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23652964</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pattydcm/pseuds/Pattydcm</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock wakes up wounded in an unknown place. He soon realizes that the one who rescued him is not entirely sane. Sherlock will have to deal with the abrupt and violent of his savior's ways and try to survive  mood swings and his different personalities. Nobody knows where Sherlock is. He can only hope that someone look for him. Anyone, but not John Watson. In fact, he doesn't want to know anything more about the doctor ...</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Sherlock Holmes/John Watson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>23</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. November 13th</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Hi everyone :-)</p>
<p>! This is an experiment!</p>
<p>I wanted to translate my fanfictions into English for people who don't speak Italian. It is an opportunity for me to receive their opinion. I hope my translation is valid. In case there are any errors I apologize.<br/>In this fanfiction I wanted to challenge myself. The challenge was for me (very humbly) to follow in the footsteps of another genius and my favorite author: Stephen King. The first novel I read, as well as the first film I saw based on a King's novel, was 'Misery'. So I tried to get inspired by the situation recreated in the King's novel, by putting the typical elements of Johnlock and the dark atmospheres of the desperate search for a missing person. Furthermore, I felt the need to make the relationship between our heroes less idyllic. Here, in fact, I wanted to experiment with something else, but I don't add anything else, otherwise I slip into the spoiler. I am satisfied with the result. I got and I hope you like it.<br/>In the original version, the female lead in this story speaks grammatically incorrectly. In the English translation I tried to keep this characteristic. I hope you enjoy. If you want, leave me a comment.<br/>Obviously these characters do not belong to me, but they are owned by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and the BBC in the transposition made by Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss. This story was written for no profit, but for the pure pleasure of writing and telling. I will be happy to read your comments.<br/>Enjoy the reading<br/>Pat</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>November 13th</p>
<p> </p>
<p>A pendulum clock ticks noisily. Mark six, but, given the soft light of the room, it is not easy to understand if is the morning or in the evening.</p>
<p>The fire crackles in the fireplace and a few sprigs of lavender must have been added to the wood. The sweet fragrance expands into the small guest room.</p>
<p>A single bed very similar to the one used in hospitals, a poor art style wooden bedside table with a green fringed bedside lamp and a desk on the opposite wall. The chair has been moved near the bed to accommodate the person who brought Sherlock there.</p>
<p>He brings his hand to his head and realizes two things. Someone attached him to a drip saline solution, a smaller one of antibiotic and another of morphine. The second thing that Sherlock realize is that his head is bandaged. He try to sit up and notices the third, not negligible, detail: his right leg is in traction. He looks at his leg as if it belonged to another person. Sherlock's leg is in plaster from over the knee at the ankle. The leg  is hang on small weights that keep it in traction thanks to pulleys.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Perfect! &gt;&gt; Sherlock exclaims, letting his head fall on the pillow. Quite bad move, which leads him to an explosion of lights behind closed eyelids.</p>
<p>The information seems to reach him in stages, which makes him seriously worry about the extent of the damage to his brain caused by the blow.</p>
<p>The window half a meter from the bed is full of condensation. A residue of snow has deposited at the base of each of the eight squares in which it is divided. It seems that the storm that was announced out there, and that he should haven't met, is doing his best.</p>
<p>Sherlock sniffs the air and behind the intense scent of lavender and wood he perceives those of an ongoing culinary preparation. Chicken broth, it would seem. Boiled vegetables too. Potatoes and carrots. Even peas.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Hospital food &gt;&gt; he says disgusted.</p>
<p>Sherlock realizes he is naked. Naked as a worm. Whoever put him on that bed stripped him, washed him, medicated him, and plastered his leg, before tucking him in the felted woolen blankets over raw cotton sheets.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Other hospital souvenirs &gt;&gt; he mumbles and his stomach starts to twist. He looks around in search of his coat, his clothes, the trolley he had with him in the rental car on which he traveled, but finds nothing. There is not even a closet in which all its stuff may have been putted.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; I would say that it is not a good sign! &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>He hears noises coming from beyond the door. Steps. Heavy. Affaticati. A continuous muttering, which becomes more and more a chatter as this person reaches the room. Two floors of stairs. He was transported over two floors. As thin as he is, an unconscious body is much heavier than a conscious one.</p>
<p>"Anyone who has been bring me here must be remarkably strong," he thinks, by pinning the information.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; I told him not to run, but he didn't, nothing, he never listened to me! &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>Sherlock picks up an excerpt of what appears to be a conversation. The voice is very low. He cannot say whether it belongs to a man or a woman. This person insists on how angry was for not being taken seriously.</p>
<p>"It will be better if I doesn't make you anger" Sherlock thinks, preparing to meet his unknown benefactor.</p>
<p>The door opens and the first thing that enters the room is a tray. Two huge hands support the tray. The fingers are swollen, indicative of poor circulation. The arms are strong under the red flannel shirt with blue stripes that cross to form many squares. Arms accustomed to chopping wood and doing hard work, for which it was simple to load him and take him up two flights of stairs.</p>
<p>With a quick gesture, the door is completely opened and Sherlock finds himself in front of a huge woman. She looks at him, surprised to find him awake.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; You finally opened your eyes &gt;&gt; she exclaims, placing the tray on the desk. &lt;&lt; I was starting to fear you wouldn't wake up anymore. You slept for three days and I had to throw a lot of food because of you &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; I'm sorry &gt;&gt; Sherlock says, realizing how much better it is for him to keep her good. She could kill him with one hand in the condition he is in. It seems that Sherlock have done the right thing, since what may seem like a smile appears on the woman's hitherto expressionless face. The pale lips curve to the sides, slightly changing the expression of the square face with a broad forehead.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Oh, of course you're sorry &gt;&gt; nods the woman, satisfied. &lt;&lt; And to make up for it, now you will eat everything, like a good boy. It's not true? &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>Sherlock's stomach contracts horrified. He would like to let her know that he is involved in solving a case and that he usually does not eat when he works, as digestion slows him down. Something tells him, however, that it is better not to start arguing with this woman.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Of course. The scent is exquisite &gt;&gt; he says.</p>
<p>Sherlock's benefactress nods. With rapid movements, the woman goes to the bed, bending over him. Sherlock closes his eyes, convinced that she wants to hit him with those big hands. Instead, she uses them to operate a lever located on the side of the bed, to lift the top of the bed and allow him to sitting.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Oh &gt;&gt; the consultant  feels his heart beat mad. &lt;&lt; It really took, thank you &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; It is the minimum to be capable to eat, isn't it? &gt;&gt; she blurts out, still bending over him. She has bad breath, an indication of bad digestion and poor oral hygiene. The smell hits Sherlock's face and he must make an effort to push back the vomit. The woman places the tray abruptly under Sherlock's nose.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Thank you for rescuing me &gt;&gt; he says, trying to start a conversation that can get him the information he needs to complete what he has already deduced.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Damn, I couldn't have left you there! &gt;&gt; exclaims. &lt;&lt; I lost my best boots, damn you. Why did you come to travel in this weather? &gt;&gt; she says, pointing to the storm outside the window.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; They advised me to leave to reach Threlkeld just to avoid the storm &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; And you saw well falling into a snowfield &gt;&gt; she says disgusted, shaking his head. &lt;&lt; You come from the city, don't you? &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; London &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; And what is a Londoner doing here in the north west? &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; I'm here for work &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; What kind of job? &gt;&gt; she asks, observing him wary. Sherlock decides to continue playing the role of the fictional character who invented when he reached the Lake District Ski Club undercover. Such a woman may not like the idea of having a consulting detective at home.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Ski teacher &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Oh, you are one of those idiots who teaches idiots to jump down from the mountains with toothpicks on their feet. It takes a lot of courage to call them skis! &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>Sherlock must be admitted that, however disturbing she is, he is perfectly in line with her judgment.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Yes, I'm one of them &gt;&gt; sketches a smile. &lt;&lt; Edward Nolton &gt;&gt; introduces himself, holding out his hand.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; But aren't you a bit frail to be a ski teacher? &gt;&gt; asks the woman, ignoring the outstretched hand. She scrutinizes him attentively, with a light in her brown eyes that is not at all reassuring. The only vital and mobile part of that shapeless mask that is her face. Sherlock is afraid he made a big mistake in lying to her. &lt;&lt; My brother was a ski teacher &gt;&gt; she says, without waiting for a reply from him. &lt;&lt; He got fooled by the fresh snow and fell into a precipice, damn idiot &gt;&gt;. She points at the fork. &lt;&lt; Eat! &gt;&gt; sort to him.  </p>
<p>Sherlock grabs the fork and realizes that he is weak enough to struggle to hold it in his hand. Pinch a potato taking a significant amount of time and bring it to his mouth.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Oh, what poultice you are! Come on here! &gt;&gt; the woman says loudly, taking the fork from his hands. &lt;&lt; Starts from the broth &gt;&gt; she says, fishing a piece of chicken from the bottom of the other dish. She pulls it up and pushes it violently into Sherlock's mouth.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; It is too hot! &gt;&gt; gasps he, by bringing his hand to his mouth..</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Don't spit! &gt;&gt; order the woman, by pointing at him with prongs of the fork. Sherlock shivers at the firm tone of her voice. The fierce eyes with which she threatens him do not promise anything good. Sherlock gasps and executes the order. Burned throat and palate were what it took to complete the situation.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Where are my things? &gt;&gt; he asks, while she continues to throw hot pieces of chicken into his mouth.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; And what do you think I had time to take its? &gt;&gt; she blurts out, irritated. &lt;&lt; Thanks god, I managed to take you. The car fell down as soon as I took you off. I had to cut off your clothes to be able to medicate you &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; So I don't have any clothes anymore? &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Where do you think to go with your leg in those conditions &gt;&gt; she attacks him, pointing with a gesture of the head the plaster that wraps Sherlock's leg. &lt;&lt; You have it for a good month, listen to me. The roads to Keswick are all blocked and I was unable to take you to the hospital. I had only two choise: leave you there to die from freezing or bring you here. I thought it was better to bring you here &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Thank you for your kindness &gt;&gt; Sherlock says, sketching a smile and in response she plants another piece of chicken in his mouth. &lt;&lt; Are you a doctor? &gt;&gt; he asks and obviously already knows that a woman like this can be anything but educated. However, he needs to know where all the hospital equipment was procured.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; My father was a doctor and taught me &gt;&gt; she replies. &lt;&lt; When the snow was too much, people came here to be treated and stayed for hospitalization. Our house transformed into a hospital and my mother and I had to act as a nurses &gt;&gt; she says snort. She must not have liked so much to help her father. &lt;&lt; Do you have someone waiting for you in London? &gt;&gt; asks him looking suspicious. Sherlock think that it is something rather strange.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; No, nobody &gt;&gt; he says, trying a heart dive for that question and above all for his answer.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Nobody? &gt;&gt; insists the woman, becoming even more wary.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Only my flatmate &gt;&gt; reluctantly admits. John is totally unaware of the trouble in which Sherlock is, at this time.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Flatmate? &gt;&gt; question the woman, ignoring what it means.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; The man I live with &gt;&gt; Sherlock replies, trying not to be horrified by his ignorance. He realizes too late that he said the wrong thing and in the wrong way.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Aren't you going to be a damn pervert? &gt;&gt; the woman thunders furiously, rising in all her greatness.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; What? &gt;&gt; asks Sherlock, incredulous in front of such unexpected fury.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; You are one of them, aren't you? I lost my boots to pick up a godless gay &gt;&gt; growls, grabbing Sherlock's the neck. Sherlock puts his too weak hands on the big and strong one of the woman and tries in every way to free himself.</p>
<p>It is not the first time that a homophobe beats him. He has suffered many beatings as a student and has always faced them with dignity.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; No &gt;&gt; whispers, however, this time, also abandoning the last supply of air. &lt;&lt; No &gt;&gt; he repeats, fearing to die in the grip of the fist of a god-fearing woman, with the mission of eradicating the homosexual scum from the face of the earth.</p>
<p>Finally the woman lets him go and Sherlock noisily sucks large mouthfuls of air, massaging his throat. A thousand bright dots blur his sight and a long and continuous whistle echoes in his ears.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; You really are not? &gt;&gt; Sherlock hears the question from far away and hurries to answer, fearing yet another violence at what she would perceive as a hesitation.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Yes, really &gt;&gt; he says with a whisper. &lt;&lt; I ... I'm engaged &gt;&gt; increases the dose, ashamed of how much this situation is making him fall down.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; But if you just said you didn't have anyone waiting for you in London, except this flatmate! &gt;&gt; she says, saying the last word with disgust.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Because London is not my city. I only work there. I am from Manchester, as well as my fiancée &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Oh, really? &gt;&gt; the woman happily asks him, changing her attitude completely. She sits on the chair, planting her elbows over her knees and her square chin in her cupped hands. &lt;&lt; Tell me &gt;&gt; she says and Sherlock's stomach closes in terror.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; What? &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; About your girlfriend &gt;&gt; she insists. Sherlock have the perception to find himself in front of a curious and impertinent six-year-old girl.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; She ... her name is Molly &gt;&gt; he says and his stomach twists.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Have you been together for a long time? &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Two years &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Do you respect her? &gt;&gt; shouts the woman, pulling her head up. Her clenched fists lead Sherlock to nod convulsively.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Of course, of course, I respect her! &gt;&gt; he says quickly. &lt;&lt; I asked her to marry me before leaving &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Oh &gt;&gt; she whispers dreamily, returning to put her chin in her cupped hands. &lt;&lt; Have you decided when? &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; In May. The 20th. She wants the sun to be there &gt;&gt; he says.  &lt;&lt; You will be able to walk, you will see &gt;&gt; she says and her face changes completely, assuming a childish and joyful expression. &lt;&lt; I wish you to have many beautiful children, with blond hair like yours and these fantastic eyes &gt;&gt; she says, placing his hand on the knee of Sherlock's healthy leg. He does not like having only the thin layer of the raw cotton sheet and the felted blanket to separate him from this woman's wet hand.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Thank you &gt;&gt; he mumbles, trying to be polite and smiling.</p>
<p>Sherlock runs his hand through the hair he has cut, smoothed and dyed blond to put on Edward Nolton's clothes. A shiver runs through his back at the thought of when his hair will start to grow, revealing their natural color.</p>
<p>John's voice tells him in his head.</p>
<p>"Yeah, because you always know everything, don't you, John?" replies Sherlock, annoyed by that intrusion.</p>
<p>"I don't think it's the right time to discuss this, Sherlock."</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Drink the broth, it will do you good &gt;&gt; the woman invites him, interrupting that silent quarrel. Although he would do without it, Sherlock takes the plate with both hands and brings it to his mouth. He must keep the woman in the 'happy child' mode as much as possible if he wants to get out of here alive.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Now the vegetables &gt;&gt; insists her, by pinching a piece of carrot which she puts in his mouth without much compliments.</p>
<p>Sherlock feels himself exhausted. He has never eaten so much and he is afraid of vomiting everything.</p>
<p>"Bad idea, Sherlock!" John says. “Try to resist. Maybe the good thing is that you will put on a few pounds. She doesn't cook that bad. "</p>
<p>Sherlock ignores John, quickly swallowing a potato, seeing the woman ready to put another in his throat.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Good boy who finished all the food &gt;&gt; she cheerful chirps, rising from the chair. She takes the tray and goes to the door. &lt;&lt; Given the huuuuungher you have, double portions for you tonight &gt;&gt; she chuckles, heading to the door. The woman turns abruptly and her face returns hard and expressionless. &lt;&lt; It was to your liking, right? &gt;&gt; asks him and the consultant nods.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; All really excellent, thank you… you didn't tell me your name, madame &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Mary Abbott &gt;&gt; solemnly replies. &lt;&lt; You can call me Mary &gt;&gt; she adds cheerfully.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Thank you, Mary, it was all excellent &gt;&gt; Sherlock increase the dose, trying to shape a convincing smile.</p>
<p>The corners of the woman's mouth curving slightly upwards.</p>
<p>Mary leaves the room closing the door behind her.  Sherlock puts his head over the pillow, realizing only now how tense and immobile he has remained. His stomach is in turmoil for the large amount of anxiety and food that has introduced. Sherlock feels it ready to exploding. Sherlock closes his eyes and forces himself to breathe slowly. He inflates and deflates the abdomen and diaphragm to quell the panic that feels under his skin and soothe the stomach.</p>
<p>"Calm down, Sherlock!" John says. "You have to stay calm. It is possible that it will take days before someone notice your absence, because of this damned storm. You must resist! She is crazy. Totally crazy, but she calm down if you obey her. If this entails a few  meals, I would say that it can be done, don't you believe it?. "</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Yes, John, I can be done &gt;&gt; he whispers, more to satisfy John's voice and hope that he will shut up. In fact, he is not convinced of it. There is something about that woman that worries him. Something that leads him to think that his stay in this place will be not easy.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. November 14yh</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>November 14th</p>
<p> </p>
<p>John enters 221B Baker Street and climbs the stairs, by dragging the heavy trolley, one step after the other with both hands.</p>
<p>"Damn manuals! They weigh a quintal and are worth a lot less” he thinks, turning the door knob, once he reaches the flat. He finds it closed, which is unusual. He has been living here for almost a year and never used the key once to open it. In fact, John looks for the key in the deck and must try a few before finding the right one. He peeks into the living room, looking around circumspectly. No trace of Sherlock.</p>
<p>Apparently, John and Mrs. Hudson worried in vain when they realized that they would both be missing from 221B for part of their respective commitments. Ms Hudson visiting her sister and John engaged in that boring course. Apparently, the consultant must have decided to take the opportunity and fly away in turn to who knows what shores.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; I hope more interesting than mine! &gt;&gt; snorts, pulling inside the suitcase. He opens it in the center of the living room, tired of making it take another step. John pull out the manuals, given as a tribute to the emergency medicine refresher course he attended in these five days spent in Dublin, and some books purchased by hiself.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; The weight of culture! &gt;&gt; chuckles, noting how much lighter the trolley is now. John's laughter echoes in the room, creating a strange effect. He has never been so alone in this apartment. When Sherlock was out for who knows which of his cases, was Mrs. Hudson downstairs. The noises coming from the landlady's house kept John company. When, however, there was no Mrs. Hudson, the apartment was prey to Sherlock's chaos, capable of making his presence felt even when he was lying on the sofa, immersed in his Mind Palace.</p>
<p>John does not like the desert 221B at all. He leaves the suitcase in front of the door and goes to Sherlock's room to find out if his is a short exit or if his flatmate decided to leave for a few days.</p>
<p>John entered Sherlock's room a few times and each of them approached the door opening it slowly, afraid of breaking some kind of balance or discovering inappropriate secrets. What he sees, now, is the perfectly redone bed and everything in its place.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; He works in a case &gt;&gt; he deduces. The order in that room is an indication of an ongoing investigation and therefore of absence of sleep for the only consulting detective in the world. John smiles to himself, shaking his head, as he closes the door.</p>
<p>"Of course you could have warned me," he thinks, going back to the living room. John stops beside his armchair and looks up at the sofa. He must admit to himself that at this time Sherlock has a valid reason for not giving news of himself.</p>
<p>On the other trips that John has made, every time he has been away from him, his flatmate hasn't missed an opportunity to contact him. Sometimes only with a text, others with many texts, even obsessive in the peak moments of his explosive boredom. Of course it also happened that Sherlock did not show up for a whole day. In that situation John must admit that he was the one writing to him, worried that something had happened or he had made some disaster.</p>
<p>In these five days, however, Sherlock has not contact him and John has hesitated several times on take the initiative and write to him. He also jotted down many texts, which were saved in drafts for a few hours before he decided to delete them entirely.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; We will talk about what happened face to face. It is a delicate situation &gt;&gt; John had said every time he canceled the texts, tormenting himself, at the same time, with Sherlock's stubborn mutism.</p>
<p>He stares at the sofa again and the memory of what happened there just two days before his departure invades his mind.</p>
<p>"I'm a bloody idiot!" sighs, passing his hand over his face, tired of the hours of travel. John walk slowly to what he has always considered the Mind Palace doormat on which Sherlock is used to lie down to access it. John sits down in the exact center. Rigid, as if he were embarrassed to touch the sofa's surface. He hesitantly places both hands on sofa's black skin and the memories come stronger.</p>
<p>"What would you think to do?".</p>
<p>“Write a new post on your blog, John. I think your fans should know about your past. "</p>
<p>"Stop saying bullshit!"</p>
<p>"'The captivating adventures of  Captain Three Continents  Watson". Sounds good as a title! I'm sure the number of visitors would skyrocket with all that sex. "</p>
<p>"Try to stop with these ideas, if you don't want me to skyrocket you!"</p>
<p>John laughs excited by the memory and the choice of words that proved to be very useful.</p>
<p>"I'm a bloody idiot!" he repeats, sighing again.</p>
<p>The bell rings by tearing him from his thoughts. A long and prolonged sound, quite annoying, to be honest.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; I am here! A moment of patience! &gt;&gt; John shout down the stairs. He opens the door and finds himself in front of Lestrade.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Greg, why did you decide to torture the bell? &gt;&gt; asks to the detective, inviting him to come in.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Sherlock ignores my texts &gt;&gt; replies Greg, nervous. &lt;&lt; I have a crazy case on my hands and it is four days, John, four days that I send him texts and I call him, but that fucking phone is always off and he does not deign to answer me &gt;&gt; Greg growls, striding along the entrance. &lt;&lt;Do you know where he is? &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; I have just returned. The refresher course in Dublin, remember? &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Yes, of course I remember it and that's why I didn't disturb you &gt;&gt; Greg roll his eyes. &lt;&lt; It is one of those cases of his sure interest. I don't understand why Sherlock doesn't answer me! Can I know, then, where he ended up? &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; To tell the truth I don't know &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; You don't know? &gt;&gt; Greg asks him in amazement. &lt;&lt; John Watson who has no idea where Sherlock Holmes ended up? &gt;&gt; he exclaims loudly and then runs his hands through his hair.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; I'm not his father, Greg! &gt;&gt; John reply annoyed. &lt;&lt; Sherlock is an adult and quite free to go where he likes best, if you hadn't noticed &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Ok, but he always says everything to you. It's the positive effect of your moving here, this, John. I have no desire to find myself as before. To wander in search of him without a shred of clue as to where he can be, until he deigns to show up! Not in the face of a case like this! &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>John would like to retort, but note how visibly stressed Greg is. It would be a useless quarrel that would not bring anything good to both of them. For this reason he takes a deep breath and decides to put aside pride.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; I'm sorry I can't help you this time, Greg &gt;&gt; whispers and the detective deflates in front of his strategically submissive tone.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; No, It is my fault. What fault can you ever have? &gt;&gt; sighs, placing his hand on John's shoulder. &lt;&lt; It's strange, don't you think? &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; I must admit that it is, yes &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Why he didn't tell you anything? &gt;&gt; he asks and John feels his cheeks turn red.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; We had a… pretty heated discussion before my departure &gt;&gt; he says embarrassed. &lt;&lt; I just haven't seen him before leaving, actually. You know what him is like when he decides to go crazy &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Yes &gt;&gt; the detective nods. Greg looks at him unconvinced. &lt;&lt; This discussion must have been pretty important &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; A lot &gt;&gt; says John, decide not to add anything else. &lt;&lt; The only one who may know something about Sherlock is his brother. You know he doesn't lose sight of him for a single moment &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Oh my God, I prefer to keep him as a last resort &gt;&gt; Greg retorts, twisting his nose. &lt;&lt; I have to go, I have a mountain of trouble to manage. Please, try to understand what happened to him and, if you find him, call me! &gt;&gt; he says, opening the door. &lt;&lt; Although I don't know the reason for the quarrel, Sherlock is giving me so much trouble that I am on your side regardless! &gt;&gt; he adds, heading to the car.</p>
<p>"This time I'm afraid it's all my fault, Greg!" John thinks, greeting him with a wave of his hand. He closes the doorway and looks at the door of their apartment.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Where are you, Sherlock? &gt;&gt; he wonders, feeling a strange concern close his stomach.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Novembre 15th</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>November 15th</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The excavator, stopped for several days, looks like an old snow-white dinosaur, which is looking forward to being able to move to shake snow off. Before it was put into forced rest the excavator had dug a hole of considerable size and depth. An excellent job that had brought to light something exceptional. To see it, however, it seems that he doesn't give a damn. The excavator is only interested in being able to shake away the snow from the rusty joints and go back to attacking the freezing earth.</p>
<p>Sherlock leans over the edge of the hole and observes carefully what the excavator has brought to light.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Human bones &gt;&gt; he mutters to himself and a spark of euphoria lights his eyes. &lt;&lt; It has all the air of being a mass grave &gt;&gt; he adds and the idea of finding out who created it reddens his cheeks more than the frost of this morning, which promises a good snowfall .</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; They were brought here in different periods &gt;&gt; says Molly, leaning in turn from the edge of the hole. &lt;&lt; The stages of decomposition are different &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; If it is not a mass grave and the corpses are not dead on the same day it could be the landfill of a serial killer &gt;&gt; Sherlock says even more excited.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; I would have preferred mass murder &gt;&gt; says Molly, giggling nervously.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Seriously? &gt;&gt; Sherlock exclaims, turning incredulously towards her. &lt;&lt; Serial killers are much more interesting &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; If you say so &gt;&gt; the girl shrugs, tucking the cap over her ears.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Let's take stock of the situation &gt;&gt; says Sherlock in a theatrical way, pacing the space in front of the pit, back and forth. He puts his joined hands under the chin. &lt;&lt; Two weeks ago, our excavator friend discovered this mass grave which counts  40 bodies who died in different eras, as you rightly pointed out. The hole is 4 miles from the Lake District Sky club. The district club commissioned the works for the construction of a new ski track and a new club to accommodate vacationers. The city of Threlkeld is at 12 miles from here and the city of Penrith is at 32 miles. Before the beginning of the works, this area was devoid of homes and even shelters. There was only that small chapel &gt;&gt; Sherlock says, turning to indicate a stone construction now almost totally eroded by bad weather. &lt;&lt; It is possible that our serial killer is also a devotee and comes to deposit his victims in the shadow of the Virgin to lighten his conscience for the evil he has done &gt;&gt; hypothesizes Sherlock, drumming his fingers together in rapid succession. &lt;&lt; Do you have any hypothesis on the cause of death? &gt;&gt; Sherlock asks to Molly who has diligently listening to him. The girl jumps into the hole and kneels among the corpses to examining them. Sherlock watches her attentively.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; There doesn't seem to be a single cause &gt;&gt; she says, continuing to examine the bodies. &lt;&lt; Some have a large number of fractures. I can't be more precise, Sherlock. They are many and many have been here for years. That, for example &gt;&gt; says, pointing to a pile of bones almost completely devoid of meat. &lt;&lt; It seems to have been here for more than ten years &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; However, they must have a common characteristic  &gt;&gt; Sherlock says, jumping in turn into the hole. He  kneeling next to her.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Which characteristic? &gt;&gt; Molly asks.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; When they were thrown here they were naked &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>&lt;&lt; WAKE UP! &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Sherlock is abruptly snatched from his Mind Palace by Mary's intimidating voice. He finds her almost attached to his face, intent on positioning the bed in a reclined position. In the air the smell of red-hot food expands combined with that of the woman, annoyingly too close to his face as she operates the knob.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; But what kind of position do you have for sleeping? With those hands joined under the chin I thought you were dead &gt;&gt; growls badly, placing the tray under Sherlock nose. &lt;&lt; Eat! &gt;&gt; she order, giving him the fork.</p>
<p>In these two days Sherlock has learned that he must start with the most watery dish. He dips his fork, muttering a tired 'Thank you' and pulls up the usual chicken. Sherlock soon discovered that Mary's cooking is not very varied. She forced him to eat the same dishes for lunch and dinner, the same quantities and all at the same temperature. He now manages to keep his hands steady around the fork, a sign that somehow the torture of meals is bearing fruit. However, Sherlock has to swallow everything very quickly, because her benefactress does not tolerate that time is wasted.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Are you a devotee? &gt;&gt; she asks him from her chair, her favorite point of observation. Sherlock just looks up to evalue the situation before replying.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; I thanked God for putting you on my way, Mary, and for allowing me to be here today, alive &gt;&gt; he says, putting on his face the sad and devoted expression and the smile embarrassed, which Mary's likes so much. In fact, the woman nods contentedly and the corners of her mouth lean slightly upwards.</p>
<p>"Bravo, Sherlock! Keep her in good mood and you will see that she won't hurt you any more”John says in Sherlock's head. Sherlock snorts in front of that umpteenth intrusion.</p>
<p>In this two days it was possible for him to make a map of the place where he is thanks to the noises he heard. He is in an old farmhouse, full of drafts and crunches of rotten and time-worn boards. He is located on the second floor, just above there is the attic, under the bedrooms and on the ground floor the living area. Involving Mary in a conversation made of targeted questions and the right amount of contrite expressions, Sherlock has managed to make her tell about the hectares of land placed all around the house and the stables immediately beyond the farmyard. A boundary wall surrounds the property bounded to the outside world by a large gate with Abbott's A cleverly forged in the center.</p>
<p>"The ideal set for a horror movie!" John says and Sherlock nods agreeing fully. As soon as he realizes it, however, he snorts again.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Do you still have so much pain there? &gt;&gt; Mary asks him, visibly embarrassed. The mere question makes Sherlock's skin crawl as he risks getting his mouthful sideways.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; He's passing &gt;&gt; he replies with a smile. A true lie, but Sherlock learned that her benefactress does not like complaints and whining. In fact, the woman nods satisfied.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; It's still snowing and doesn't seem to want to stop &gt;&gt; Mary says, her gaze now turned to the window. At the base of the eight boxes that make it up, the layer of snow that has accumulated has increased considerably.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; You must be accustomed to making substantial stocks of food, wood and everything you need to cope with these harsh winters &gt;&gt; investigates Sherlock, scrutinizing her face to test the effect of the question that has asked her. She nodding and an expression of profound sadness marks her face. Sherlock noted that the appearance, on that impassive face, of emotions indicates the arrival of the child's personality.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; There is so much loneliness here when the snow arrives &gt;&gt; Mary whispers, in fact, with a small little voice. She turns her gaze to him and the cheerful smile drives away any sign of sadness. &lt;&lt; Fortunately, you are here. You who are calm and behave so well &gt;&gt; adds joyful.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; You are very dear to me, why should I not behave well? &gt;&gt; Sherlock asks her, feeling his heart beat faster.</p>
<p>Mary remains motionless, her gaze lost in front of her for a whole minute. A minute during which she seems to not even breathe and the consultant's stomach closes in a grip of fear in front of those empty and dazed eyes.</p>
<p>Suddenly Mary stands up and with rapid movements grabs the tray and goes to the door. Before leaving, she pauses for a moment, as if she had remembered something, then leaves the room.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Jesus! &gt;&gt; Sherlock mumbles, struggling to take the long breaths that have help  him to quell panic. Sherlock massage his face hard.</p>
<p>"Keep going, Sherlock," John tells him. At this time even in the John's tone of annoying voice he hears the worry vibrate.</p>
<p>The heavy footsteps announce that Mary is about to return and Sherlock would like to scream and at the same time to have the power to lock that damned door with the only force of thought.</p>
<p>"I'd rather die here, instead to see her another time!" Sherlock thinks, wondering how it could be possible that in just two days spent with her, since him awakening, he already feels this way.</p>
<p>Mary enter in the room with her expressionless face and the 'parrot', the tool that Sherlock has always found abominable and has always refused to use in his previous hospital admissions. Rather than inserting the penis into the hard plastic entrance of that sort of chamber pot, he preferred to haven't it on. Thanks to Mary Sherlock definitely had to change his mind about it.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Do it! &gt;&gt; She orders, handing him the 'parrot'. Sherlock does not feel the urge to urinate, but communicating it to Mary would serve no purpose. He quickly learned that his benefactress has pre-established times for each type of body function and does not tolerate variations or missed executions. Not only did he find himself forcibly fed, but also forced to urinate and defecate on command.</p>
<p>Sherlock grabs the 'parrot', saing a tested and submissive 'Thank you'. The woman turns away to give him a moment of privacy. Not even his mother and all the nannies Sherlock has had, have managed to get so much from him and in such a short time.</p>
<p>"Just because I have a broken leg, a nice head injury, there is a storm outside and I am naked like a worm" Sherlock thinks as he does his duty. He observes the hemorrhagic color of his urine and for a moment the crazy idea of pouring them on Mary assails him.</p>
<p>"I would die as a hero!" he thinks, trying to stifle a hysterical laugh.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; I'm done &gt;&gt; he whispers, feignedly embarrassed and the woman reaches out her hand protected by a latex glove. She</p>
<p>holding the 'parrot' at eye level and the tremor that shakes her body does not promise anything good.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; There is blood &gt;&gt; she mumbles, lowering that horrible object. &lt;&lt; There is still blood in the urine &gt;&gt; adds turning around. The anger in her raging eyes force Sherlock to remain calm.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; The wound has not yet closed &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Two days have passed! &gt;&gt; the woman growls, worryingly shaking the 'parrot'.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; It is a delicate body area &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Don't lie to me, bastard! &gt;&gt; she says, grabbing Sherlock's neck with her free hand. &lt;&lt; You, pervert without god! How dare you perform such acts of disgusting lust in my house &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; I didn't do anything, Mary, believe me! &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>Bad choice of words. The woman takes his justification as an admission of guilt and begins to shake him and slamming him several times against the mattress.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; How can you implore me by showing off your lie, damn wanker with no respect! &gt;&gt; she shouts, putting more emphasis in her shake. Sherlock force himself to not vomit all the lunches he has been forced to eat in these days.</p>
<p>"Good idea, my friend," John intervenes. “Ask her for forgiveness".</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Forgive me, Mary &gt;&gt; Sherlcok says in a choked voice. &lt;&lt; Forgive me for what I have done. I repent. I regret everything! &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>The woman suddenly walks away, leaving him panting and trembling on the bed. Sherlock for the first time feels his broken leg ache, while a thousand white dots explode before his eyes. His head, already painfull by the blow, begins to ache right in the injured areas.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Will you never do it again? &gt;&gt; asks Mary menacingly.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Never again, I swear it &gt;&gt; whispers Sherlock, massaging the throat. The woman seems to reflect on what to do, which brings the tension to the stars.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; If tomorrow there will still be blood in your urine I will have to find a solution, Edward &gt;&gt; She says, going away with great heavy steps.</p>
<p>Sherlock remains motionless, looking at the door. He realizes once again how tense he when that woman corrupts the air with her presence.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; She will have to find a solution &gt;&gt; he repeats and once again panic pushes to take over. Edward has been threatened. A punishment awaits him, if he still dares to have the bad habit of masturbating to the point of bleeding.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; It is not a good thing, Eddy, no, no! &gt;&gt; Sherlock says and then explode into a loud laugh. He laughs, feeling his aching throat, his stomach too full, his broken leg that seems to have woken up only now and his urethra on fire.</p>
<p>A couple of hours after his first awakening and his first meal, Mary went up to the room armed with a basin, sponges and towel. The idea of being washed by her, of her hands on his body, had made Sherlock shiver. Mary had already stripped and washed him while he was completely unconscious and totally at her mercy. Sherlock proposed her to permit him to wash himself to relieve her of the burden, but this  infuriated her. Sherlock had done a good number of repentant and contrite looks to calm her.</p>
<p>Sherlock had tried to get away from his body, while the hands of that woman, protected by latex gloves, washed him with no grace.</p>
<p>Mary had torn the bandage on the forehead with a sharp blow, regardless of the possibility of hurting him. She had sprayed the wound with disinfectant and dabbed it vigorously before covering it again.</p>
<p>The more her hands went down to the pelvis the, more discomfort had increased in Sherlock. The real panic had taken hold of him when he heard she say &lt;&lt; Now that you are awake we can remove the catheter. You are perfectly capable of doing it in the 'parrot' &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>That tube had disturbed him from the first moment he saw it come out of his penis. It must have been inserted without lubricants and forcefully. Fortunatelly Sherlock was unconscious. Unfortunatelly</p>
<p>he was conscious when she simply grabbed the tube and tore it away.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; What you've done? &gt;&gt; she cried, in horror at the blood that had spoiled her precious sheets.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; You mustn't have to tear it away like that! &gt;&gt; he had shouted at her, painfull. He learned there that it is better not to upset, to insult, nor to reproach Mary's actions.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; You wanted me to touch you, you damned pervert? &gt;&gt; she cried, tearing off of his body the stained sheets. For a moment Sherlock had feared she would hit him in the genitals. Luckily she had only thrown to him at a towel, that Sherlock had used to stop the hemorrhage. She ran out, leaving him in bed, naked as a worm, still partially wet from the wash she was carrying on.</p>
<p>Sherlock had feared that the bleeding would not stop and that he would die like this, bled due to a bad laceration to the urethra caused by the abrupt extraction of a catheter. He had to call all his strength and many voices from his Mind Palace to stay calm and he must have even dozed off, because he hadn't heard her come in when he realized that Mary was tucking in his blankets.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; So bad? &gt;&gt; she asked him and, relieved, Sherlock realized that the little girl was now in front of him. He had nodded, unable to say anything and had happily accepted the ice and clean towel she had given him. For the first time he had been forced to use the 'parrot' and the burning during urination had been such as to tear cry.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; It will pass soon, you will see &gt;&gt; the little Mary said, looking, however, alarmed the liquid more red than straw yellow present in that object. She replaced the antibiotic bag and increased the morphine before leaving him alone in the dark.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; What can be the measures you will take? &gt;&gt; Sherlock whispers, his gaze fixed on the door.</p>
<p>“Could be that she will castrate you. In the other way, coul be that she will cut off one of your hands. Or maybe both. For better or for worse, obviously it is at your discretion to choose which option to place them in, little brother! ”.</p>
<p>Mycroft's voice had not yet revealed himself in his mind. He does not like to hear him speculate both these terrible possibilities.</p>
<p>"It seems, however, to be a magnanimous woman, in her own way," continues Mycroft. "She could give you the opportunity to choose whether to lose one or another part of your body. I'm curious to know which one your choice. "</p>
<p>The sarcastic grin of his brother can very well imagine it.</p>
<p>"No, Sherlock, that's not a good thing!" John intervenes. "If you call up characters to knock you down or humiliate you even more, we won't get out."</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; You're right &gt;&gt; nods Sherlock.</p>
<p>"The mind has a big power over the body," continues John. “I know they are concepts very far from you, but try to concentrate and imagine that the wound closes. Imagine one platelet at a time coming together and the inflammation will disappear. I know you can do it, Sherlock” John encourages him. Sherlock realizes how valuable John's advice is. Despite the annoyance he feel towards him, Sherlock puts his joined hands under his chin and diligently follows the advice of his doctor.</p>
<p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. November 16th</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>November 16th</p>
<p> </p>
<p>John walks nervously back and forth in the Diogenes Club's waiting room. His steps are excellently muffled by the thick carpet and the clumsy sound they produce makes John even more nervous. They seem to take away the right importance from to the reason that prompted him to consult Mycroft Holmes.</p>
<p>For the umpteenth time in a few moments John turns his gaze to the watch on his wrist. He's been there making a groove on the carpet for a hour now.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Jesus, but how dare you make me wait! &gt;&gt; growls, tormenting the hair with both hands. Yet he had been clear with the old-fashioned bearded old man who welcomed him at the entrance. John specified several times that he is there for reasons relating to Mr. Holmes' younger brother. Mycroft repeatedly told him how much he constantly cared about Sherlock, for that reason John thought  would get him received it immediately. Instead, he seems to be busy in a very important meeting.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; At 10 in the morning! I think I should be satisfied with how my tax money is spent if the government starts its important job so early &gt;&gt; John turns around, ready to walk the room in the opposite direction. The door opens leaving in mid-air.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Mr. Holmes can receive you, Dr. Watson! &gt;&gt; pompously announces the valet and John does not have it repeated twice. With quick and nervous steps, John leaves the room, badly moving the valet away and rushes to attack the knob of the door of Mycroft's office.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Good morning, John &gt;&gt; greets him, rather annoyed by his abrupt entry into the room. &lt;&lt; To what do I owe the honor of your visit? &gt;&gt; asks just looking up from his papers.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; What do you owe it to? &gt;&gt; asks John amazed. &lt;&lt; Shouldn't you already know of it, as everything about your brother and anyone else is under your strict control? &gt;&gt; growls nervously, shifting the weight from one foot to the other.</p>
<p>Mycroft finally grants a proper look to John and frowns, leaving the documents in his hand on the precious wooden table.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; I was away for a whole week, engaged in a complicated negotiation aimed at avoiding the onset of a third world conflict, John &gt;&gt; informs him, leaning on the back of the armchair, his hands crossed on his belly. &lt;&lt; You will excuse me if I didn't have time to check what you and my beloved brother were combining &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Have you been away? You too? &gt;&gt; John asks incredulously, collapsing on the armchair in front of the desk. &lt;&lt; Jesus, I can't believe it. We all left him alone for a few days ... &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Experience has taught me that with Sherlock even a few minutes can be crucial &gt;&gt; Mycroft says and his lips curl up to form that fake and mocking smile that from the first time John saw him he found it annoying.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Mycroft, this time the situation is serious &gt;&gt; says John, supporting his gaze of sufficiency. &lt;&lt; Mrs. Hudson left on the 9th, a day after me, and told me that in the morning, when she left the apartment, Sherlock was still at home and did not mention his intention to leave London. He did not receive any request on the site, or rather none that could have been seriously considered by him, and not even any e-mail. Lestrade tries from the 10th to contact him to submit a case that may be of Sherlock's interest and has not received replies to his messages. When Greg tries to call him the cell phone appears to be unreachable. I also tried to contact him, until just before I came here, with the same result. It can't be one of his usual follies, Mycroft. Something happened to Sherlock, I feel it &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>John runs his hands over his face, worried that the sensation he feels on the skin may correspond to reality. Mycroft continues to peer at him silently. John cannot understand how Mycroft can be so calm after what he told him.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Did you and Sherlock have a discussion before your departure? &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>John has learned about the ways of doing of this other Holmes, capable of deducing everything as much as his brother, but with the habit of being less direct and more feignedly courteous. John knows that this is not a question, but a kindly disguised statement.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Nothing that could bring him to disappear, Mycroft! &gt;&gt; he says.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Are you really sure? &gt;&gt; Mycroft asks him, resting his elbows on the desk.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Your brother is missing and you are wasting time making me an interrogation? &gt;&gt; John screams, pointing the finger at him. &lt;&lt; Why don't you call someone of yours and ask him to check the phone records, so that it can find out if Sherlock has received phone calls or text messages or anything else that can help us understand where he is? Do I have to remind you that a madman who claims to be a consulting criminal has decided to elect himself as Sherlock's huge fan? &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Do you think Moriarty is behind all this? &gt;&gt; Mycroft always asks with that smile on his lips.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; I don't know what to think, Mycroft &gt;&gt; John shouts, beating his fists on the desk. &lt;&lt; I just know Sherlock's not anywhere. He might have really gone off to chase a case, or he might float on the bottom of the Thames with concrete shoes on his feet, as far as I know at the moment. I am as accustomed as you to his ways of doing and if I tell you that I am worried, please, take it into consideration &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>John does not look down, intent on making the ice man understand who he is dealing with. Mycroft remove his smile from his lips.</p>
<p>He picks up the phone and just says 'Come here' and has not yet put down the phone that immediately the door opens and Anthea enters, accompanied by her Blackberry. She gives John just a glance, by dedicating his attention to his boss.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Get me the phone records of the last two weeks of Sherlock's number and ask the technicians to let me have all the shots that concern him in the shortest possible time &gt;&gt; with a gesture of the hand Mycroft invites her to go. The woman nods, turns on her heels and leaves the room, obedient like a soldier.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Coming to your discussion ... &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; They are not things that concern you! &gt;&gt; John immediately stops him, peremptory.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Are you sure? &gt;&gt; asks him sternly.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Yes &gt;&gt; retorts John. Mycroft sighs producing a long hiss. As if he was trying to stay calm, although he doesn't seem like he is going to lose it.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; I always thought that excess does not lead to anything good, John, and you? &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>The doctor does not want to fall into his tricks and in response simply limits his gaze to him.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; I understand &gt;&gt; Mycroft says with his stretched smile. &lt;&lt; Sherlock, on the other hand, wallows in excess. He exaggerates not to eat, even going to pass out in the worst cases. He exaggerates not to eat, even going to pass out in the worst cases. Exaggerate not to sleep until it completely collapses. I certainly don't have to tell you about all the times he was found deeply asleep in the most unusual places. I think you know exactly what I'm talking about &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>John nods, since he has found himself having to load Sherlock on the back, force him into the taxi, reassuring the driver that he is not dealing with a drug addict and his babysitter. Then, John drag Sherlock up the 17 steps, let him fall on the bed. And, finally, transporting himself to his room to take care of his aching back.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; And I fly over his excesses with drugs and smoke &gt;&gt; continues Mycroft, shaking his head slightly to express his disappointment. &lt;&lt; I must admit that the only thing in which my brother has never exaggerate is alcohol &gt;&gt; he says and John notices a flicker glimmering in his gray eyes. John obliges himself not to look away and to try to show how little he is touching by what Mycroft is saying. &lt;&lt; A bad habit that luckily he never cultivated, unlike you &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Do you think that I am an alcoholic, Mycroft? &gt;&gt; asks john, between teeth.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; No, no, John, this is not my intent &gt;&gt; reassures him, pushing away what he said with a quick gesture of the hand. &lt;&lt; You will agree with me, however, that you have a remarkable resistance to the effects of alcohol, while Sherlock definitely does not &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>In fact, John has never seen Sherlock go beyond the glass of wine during one of the rare meals he allows himself, without ever finishing it completely. Or the half finger of some alcoholic drink, very rarely. Only on the Saturday night of the previous week did John see him swallowing a whole pint of beer, along with the two grappas he was so invited to try. Yes, Sherlock was definitely drunk, not just as tipsy as he could says. He had drunk considerably more.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; It is known how alcohol makes you uninhibited, even more if you are not used to it. But you are a doctor, I really don't think I should explain it to you &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>John does not like the veiled accusation that prods his sens of guilt.</p>
<p>Anthea enters the office, announcing herself with two shots on the door. She hands a packet of papers to his boss. Then remains still half a meter from the desk, her hands folded behind her back, in a resting position.</p>
<p>Mycroft leafs through the documents, seraphic, and John would like to tear them from his hands and move about his business. The only thing that interested him was being able to count on Mycroft's ability to obtain any information.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Apparently Sherlock received a phone call on Wednesday 9th late in the morning. A number whose area code appears to be from the Cumbria region. It belongs to Hugh Paddington,  the owner of the Lake District Ski Club &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; What is? A ski resort? &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; That's right, John &gt;&gt; replies Mycroft, continuing to examine the sheets. &lt;&lt; There were three other Paddington's phone call during the day and two more the following day. Thursday, however, there are significant telephone exchanges with the local police district. The last of these occurred in the late afternoon, then nothing more &gt;&gt; Mycroft says and his forehead stretched so far frowns imperceptibly. &lt;&lt; Sherlock no longer made calls, nor sent messages and he was not even contacted anymore &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Greg and I did it! &gt;&gt; retorts John.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; I know. When the line is unreachable the repeater blocks the call to the nearest cell and on the report there is no &gt;&gt;. Mycroft caresses his perfectly shaved chin and seems to evaluate the situation. &lt;&lt; What are the weather conditions in the area? &gt;&gt; question to his secretary.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; From Thursday afternoon a real storm is going on &gt;&gt; replies Anthea, who had already carried out the research while her boss was reading the data. &lt;&lt; It is not possible in any way to reach Threlkeld and Penrith, the cities closest to the Lake District Ski Club &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; It is possible, therefore, that Sherlock got stuck there with all the others &gt;&gt; Mycroft says, dropping the sheets on the desk.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Are you going to liquidate it like this? &gt;&gt; John asks, incredulously.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; The situation, my dear doctor, seems somewhat obvious to me &gt;&gt; Mycroft replies, rolling his eyes. &lt;&lt; My brother has been contacted by this Paddington to handle a case. Sherlock recognized it interesting, decided to leave and during the investigation he found himself stuck up there by the storm. He will be giving a hard time to the patience of those poor people &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; So you mean that your assumptions are really enough for you &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Deductions, John, no guesses &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; And are you so sure, that you don't even bother to do more detailed checks? &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; What kind of checks? &gt;&gt; Mycroft teases him.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; What was the case, for example. The police station databases are all connected and I don't think it would be so difficult to access and verify them &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; You are right, in fact I would not be of any difficulty. I think that it just doesn't be appropriate to do it &gt;&gt; Mycroft says standing up, leaving John speechless. &lt;&lt; I've already explained what I think is happening. The sense of guilt is leading you to see in this story much more than trivial there is &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; I don't feel guilty about anything, Mycroft &gt;&gt; John jumps up, facing him. &lt;&lt; The only thing I feel is that something bad has happened to your brother. Despite the discussion we had, Sherlock wouldn't keep me in the dark about how much it's been living for so long &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Are you really sure, John? &gt;&gt; Mycroft challenges him, suddenly becoming serious. &lt;&lt; Do you really think you know my brother to the point of being able to put limits on his grudge? &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Yes, Mycroft! And since I can't count on you &gt;&gt;, he says, grabbing the phone records abandoned on the desk, &lt;&lt; I will conduct my investigations in another way &gt;&gt;. John takes one last look to Mycroft, before heading for the door. He puts his hand on the handle, but before opening it he turns back once more towards him. &lt;&lt; Do you know, Mycroft? I really hope you are right and that I am wrong. I hope so because if it were not so, in the unfortunate hypothesis in which I am right, well ... I would not like to be in your shoes &gt;&gt; John goes out, taking care to slam the door.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>***</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Sherlock wakes up in a sweat and with shortness of breath. A nightmare. He had a terrible and so real nightmare. Lost in the storm. Surrounded by wolves. Cornered and attacked. Wolves's white teeth sank into the flesh of his right leg. He lays his hand on it, happy to feel it whole. The pain, however, persists unchanged. He looks up at the IV and realizes that the morphine is over. With its end pain came.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Oh my God, no. This no. &gt;&gt; mumbles. It is not only the excruciating pain in the leg that worries him. He feels his stomach tight, as if Mary's hand had sunk into his hollowed belly, had pierced his skin to tighten his viscera in his fist.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Not also this, no &gt;&gt; repeats between sobs.</p>
<p>As Sherlock had foreseen, nothing good could bring him the long presence of morphine in the body. If in a person who has never used drugs, addiction and abstinence come much later, in those who, on the other hand, have already experienced its joys for a long time,  the pains come much earlier. The painful grasp Sherlock feel in the belly is nothing more than the bite of abstinence.</p>
<p>"You can stand it, Sherlock," John tells him. "I'm sure you can do it."</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; No. No I can't, John &gt;&gt; growls furiously between sobs. &lt;&lt; If it were only this I could do it, but there is also that woman, that abominable woman &gt;&gt; and the crying explodes. For too long Sherlock had stood still between tension and forced relaxation.</p>
<p>Contrary to what happens to anyone who is experiencing great physical pain, Sherlock perfectly remembers every single moment of his past abstinence crisis. He tried twice before finally succeeding with his third detox to get rid of addiction to cocaine and all the other things he injected or swallowing to overcome his sense of unhappiness. He doesen't acept to start again and with a sneaky drug like morphine.</p>
<p>Sherlock hears the two sides of himselve talking to each other. The one who tries to find a way to persuade the woman to replace the IV, arguing the choice with the possibility of being lucid and able to respond to it in order to avoid incurring other punishments. The other who, instead, tries to convince him to resist, reminding him how the physical effects of the crisis pass faster if the hiring is recent. Then only the pain in the leg would remain, but that would manage to manage it by isolating it in a room of his Mind Palace, as he regularly does for the headache or for all the bruises that he finds himself after every case that requires active action.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; You are a disaster, look at yourself! &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>Sherlock opens his eyes to the sound of Mary's abrupt and aggressive voice.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; The leg… it hurts &gt;&gt; he mumbles, trying to justify his conditions.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Obviously it hurts. It is broken &gt;&gt; she replies, indifferent to his pain. Sherlock stares at that frowning face, the huge body, the hands anchored to the hips and cannot help but laugh. He laughs because he could have made that joke in a similar circumstance. Why reaffirm what is obvious? A broken leg can only hurt. He himself would have been in the same way insensitive. Feeling how bad it is to reiterate the obvious with an air of sufficiency and annoyance, causes him an even greater pain than he feels in the leg and belly.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; How dare you laugh at me? &gt;&gt; shouts the woman, raising her big hand over her head ready to vibrate the blow.</p>
<p>"Yeah, let's end it!" Sherlock thinks, preparing to take the hit.</p>
<p>This, however, does not come. Sherlock barely opens one eye, wary, and finds Mary motionless, her hand raised fifty centimeters from her face. The vague gaze, the grim expression. It almost seems that someone has stopped time, as they usually do in the obvious and banal plot movies that John likes so much. Sherlock is almost tempted to raise his hand and touch her, to realize if all this is really happening or is the result of a hallucination. Suddenly, however, the woman recovers and leaves the room, leaving him alone.</p>
<p>In other circumstances, Sherlock would have found this woman's mind fascinating. From what he has been able to notice, that catatonic state seems to be generated by the activation of the synapses in the production of a complex thought. The previous occasions on which Mary suddenly froze, in fact, saw her perform some operations once again to resolve a situation or make a choice, which is visible from the glimmer that Sherlock noticed lighting up in her eyes.</p>
<p>This time the woman returns to the room with a vial in her hand and Sherlock realizes that, just before vibrating the blow that most likely would have killed him, something inside Mary must have warned her that his condition was linked to the absence of morphine .</p>
<p>Sherlock observes Mary while, with her usual clumsiness, she tears away the empty vial. Sherlock grabs her hand just a moment before she places the new one.</p>
<p>"What are you doing?".</p>
<p>“I don't want to, John. I don't want any more poison in my body. "</p>
<p>"If you tell her not to, Mary will ask you why and if she should find out that she has welcomed an ex-junkie into the house, how do you think it will end?".</p>
<p>"I do not want to. I prefer to take risks. I prefer pain. It was tiring to stop. So tiring ”a silent cry marks Sherlock's face. In tears, he sees Mary's expression change and recognizes the arrival of the little girl.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; This will make you feel better &gt;&gt; she says, smiling sweetly.</p>
<p>"No" He would like to say, but the face is so tense and the tongue so heavy.</p>
<p>"You have to survive, Sherlock!" John exclaims, in the captain's peremptory tone. “Your goal now is to get out of this room, save yourself from this woman. We'll think later about the rest! "</p>
<p>The memories of those terrible days spent between cramps, retching, high fever and hallucinations invade Sherlock mind. He doesn't want to go back there. He doesn't want to fall prey to his nightmares, not yet.</p>
<p>Sherlock loses his grip on Mary's hand, however. The arm falls inert on the mattress, producing a little reassuring thud. Sherlock surrenders to the only chance he has of getting out of there: being able to have a clear mind capable of reasoning in the absence of pain.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Thanks, Mary &gt;&gt; he whispers to her and she with a smile applies the vial to the IV. Slowly the drops descend along the tube. Sherlock watches them enter his body through the needle planted in the hollow of his arm. It only takes a few minutes to feel the pain subside. The leg no longer exists and the abdomen relaxes satisfied.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>***</p>
<p> </p>
<p>&lt;&lt; John, I realize how important the situation is, but I feel the duty to point out that it's madness, my friend &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>Greg weigh every single word and now looks at John with the same compassionate look that is given to the desperate relatives of a kidnapping victim. John would gladly jump to Greg's throat, but, after all, he knows that his detective friend is just trying to make him reason.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Did you hear what your colleagues said? &gt;&gt; retorts John, trying to stay calm.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Sure. And did you hear what they said about the weather forecast for the next forty-eight hours? &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>John sighs and runs his hands over his tired face. Since he returned to Baker Street from the refresher course, he has slept a few hours and only because he has collapsed exhausted between one search and another of his missing flatmate. Because Sherlock is missing now. John is almost certain. He drops into the chair and rests his elbows on Lestrade's desk.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Greg, I can't stay here while Sherlock might need my help &gt;&gt; he sighs, taking his head in his hands. &lt;&lt; The last thing that we known about him is that communication received on Thursday by the police command, where he warned them that he would go to them. But, from what your colleague told us, they never heard from him again &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; John, they also told us that in storms like the one that is breaking down from them, it is normal that many areas remain isolated. Sometimes even for months! And the Lake District Ski Club is one of these &gt;&gt; insists Greg. &lt;&lt; Sherlock had told them that it would drop before the weather alert, in order to escape the storm. You know him, he will have been caught by another clue and he will have wasted time, getting stuck up there &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; This is just a hypothesis, Greg, and I don't like not having at all certainties! &gt;&gt; John says, standing up again. &lt;&lt; Jesus, how is it possible that, after the first ten years of the new millennium, there are still problems in communicating because of the weather? &gt;&gt; blurts out, kicking a chair. From behind the venetian blinds, pulled down but open, John sees the agents peeking at what is happening in their boss's office. They are curious to see the usually calm and patient doctor alter, since there is not even the 'freak' to justify his behavior.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; I don't know, John &gt;&gt; says Greg, who works to guarantee a moment of privacy to his friend, by tightening the venetian blinds. &lt;&lt; Why do you have to think of the worst? Even his brother is calm and we both know how much smarter he is than Sherlock. If Mycroft Holmes smelled something worth worrying about, do you think he wouldn't have immediately mobilized the whole MI6 for Sherlock? &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>Greg's observation is correct, but John has this feeling, this very bad feeling that persists.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Greg, I feel that something has gone wrong. I feel it, you understand? &gt;&gt; John says, turning his gaze to him. &lt;&lt; Obviously, I hope to be just too apprehensive and you will have the chance to tease me for life if it were so. But I want to take away the whim, even just to get closer to those areas, and try to get his news. I need to know he's fine, Gregory &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>Lestrade looks at him for a long time. His eyes reduced to two slits, as if he wanted to focus better on the desperate man who took the place of his friend.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; You know, John, I should be mortally pissed at you &gt;&gt; Greg says, seriously. The doctor, surprised, is speechless. &lt;&lt; Before your arrival nobody knew, officially at least, who was the real architect of my successes. I got promotions, commendations, praise and many other things for five years. Then you came into his life &gt;&gt;, Greg says, pointing with a finger, &lt;&lt; with your blog and your posts. Sherlock became famous and everyone knew who really solved the difficult cases that many joys had given me. Do you know why, on the other hand, I'm not pissed at you at all? &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Why do I love rugby and share pints of beer on Friday nights? &gt;&gt; play down John. Greg chuckles and shakes his head.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Those are nice side effects &gt;&gt; he admits, doing shrugs. &lt;&lt; I am not pissed because since you moved with Sherlock to 221 B you have removed a significant amount of stress from over my shoulders. I no longer have to worry about chasing Sherlock to get answers to my messages or to know where he ended up and where he is with the investigations, because I just have to ask you. And you promptly answer me. I no longer have to worry about him being too cold and direct with the witnesses or relatives of the victims or with my men, because you just have to glance at him and he gets in line. I no longer have to fight to make Sherlock accept a case, because, in order not to see him fall prey to boredom, you persuade him to give me a hand and within an hour everything is done. I owe you the well-being of my liver and my coronaries, John, and for this reason I cannot be pissed off for the loss of commendations, promotions and economic bonuses &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Well, Greg, what can I say? It is the most beautiful declaration of esteem I have ever received &gt;&gt; John says and both explode into a laugh, capable of dissipating the tension and allowing the doctor to catch his breath.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; I think I have never thanked Sherlock enough for all the headaches thatn he takes me off &gt;&gt; adds Greg, wiping his eyes. &lt;&lt; If you, John, who know Sherlock better than anyone else, are worried about him, then I think something is really happened there. The least I can do is help you. The case I am following is at a dead end and only Sherlock's brilliant and absurd mind can unlock the situation. So I think I will accompany you on this crazy adventure. I stand rusty behind a desk &gt;&gt; Greg says, standing up. John is speechless and it takes him a few moments to realize what Greg has proposed.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Jesus, Greg! Are you serious? &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Sure! &gt;&gt; exclaims the detective. &lt;&lt; The colleague at the head of Threlkeld's command is a dickhead of the best! You need someone to hold your arm to avoid a conviction for assaulting a public official &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; You know me &gt;&gt; chuckles John, relieved at the idea of not having to venture alone among those ruthless and icy mountains.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. November 17th</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>November 17th</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The plans for the new ski resort include the construction of a 5-star hotel, a restaurant and an equipped area near the station from which the chairlifts will depart. Hugh Paddington is an ambitious man who has done his counts well and does not want that in any way those bodies found during the excavations could hinder his plans. He contacted Sherlock precisely to entrust him with the case, since the local authorities gave orders that nothing was touched until the investigation was resolved. The consultant accepted the case, finding it fascinating from the first words spoken by that arrogant and careerist man.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; The police  hypothesized it to be a cemetery or a mass grave or that the corpses are victims of some mad assassin. I only know that everyone speculates here, but nobody moves and I need someone to move, Mr. Holmes &gt;&gt; and Sherlock has moved.</p>
<p>A large number of rows opened in Sherlock's head, happy at the idea of putting his hands over decaying corpses that many things have to tell those who can observe. Sherlock putted in his trolley some heavy clothing and left without too many words.</p>
<p>Inspector Hataway proved to be an incompetent capable of making to Sherlock even regret the Yardes with which he usually has to deal. The policeman looked at him from head to feet, immediately saying that he did not need a London dandy playing the modern Maigret. Sherlock silenced him with a precise deduction on his unprofessional relationship with the only female agent chosen in the district &lt;&lt; By the way, she grants herself to you only for the promotion that you promise her &gt;&gt;. Sherlock didn't earn the inspector's sympathies, of course.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; I am sure the inspector will be happy to know that you flown down the cliff along with your uncomfortable deductions &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>John smiles at him, with that expression that seems to mean 'you're totally crazy, but I love you' that Sherlock often finds on his face. He looking away to hide the embarrassment behind one of the maps he pretends is still examining. Although Sherlock is mad at John, he cannot hide how much pleasure his attentions do to him.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; What do you think happened here, Sherlock? &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; A big mess going on for years, John &gt;&gt; replies all happy, which is rather inconvenient, given the case. &lt;&lt; That pit seems being the dump of a serial &gt;&gt; Sherlock adds, his fingers joined under the satisfied smile that illuminates his face. &lt;&lt; I did well to accept &gt;&gt; he nods pleased with himself.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; I would have something to complain about, but I don't think you will take me into account &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Of corse &gt;&gt; Sherlock says, moving on to browse the documents he got on the local population. &lt;&lt; The serials are habitual, obsessive, manic. They follow a precise pattern and do not give it up. You can only frame them if they make a mistake &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; How did Hope with the lady in pink &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Precisely! &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; And we have a pink suitcase somewhere? &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; No. Neither that, nor anything else. The only thing we can do is study the area and speculate where the corpses come from &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; How will you do it? They could also come from Lancaster or Morecambe or maybe from both places &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; No, no, no, John. Look &gt;&gt; Sherlock says, placing a photo of the pit under John's nose. &lt;&lt; Both cities you mentioned are to the south, while the only way to get here and passing from the north, according to what can be deduced from the shape of the terrain and the network of roads and paths &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; So either from Castlerigg or from St. Johns in the Vale. Maybe even from Keswick or Threlkeld &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; No, these are too far &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; How can you say that? &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Because the most recent corpse dates back to 14 months ago &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; So September last year &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Exactly, and from June to December of last year the roads that connect this area with those two cities have been closed for works. The newspapers have spoken for months about the protests of the local hoteliers for the bad season that this inconvenience caused them. There are no other beaten roads that connect the pit with those cities and this leads us to exclude them with a 98% probability. We could always deal with a serial killer so self-confident to go around Bassenthwaite to reach Penrith and from there go down. I don't want to limit human madness &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Fantastic &gt;&gt; John whispers in ecstasy.</p>
<p>Sherlock looks up, as always amazed by John's compliments. Their eyes remain hooked for a long time in the silence, that becomes more and more electric and full of tension.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Don't you think we should talk about what happened on Saturday, Sherlock? &gt;&gt; John asks him, crossing his arms over his chest.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Yes, I think we should, John, but not now &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Sure. First of all the duty and then ... sorry, bad choice of words &gt;&gt; chuckles to dissolve the tension always so palpable between them.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>A deaf and sudden noise snatchesm Sherlock from his Mind Palace. It usually takes a lot longer to get him out of there, but in recent days, his defenses are apparently much higher than usual. Mary is bent over Sherlock again, intent on straightening the bed.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; You are really very devoted &gt;&gt; she says. Mary put a bucket of water on the floor and a basin on the chair. However, it is not bath time. Sherlock quickly moves his eyes in every direction to deduce as quickly as possible what to expect and how to organize a possible defense.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; You look like an homeless. It's not a good thing &gt;&gt; says the woman, pulling a freehand razor out of the pocket of her flannel trousers. Sherlock shivers. He has no intention of losing his nose or being scarred or slaughtered by Mary's coarse ways.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; In fact, it is a little long &gt;&gt; he stammers, bringing his hand to the face, covered by the unkempt beard of almost a week.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; In an indecent way &gt;&gt; she says, while making the thread to the blade passing it on a leather belt. Sherlock looks at her hypnotized. His hand from the chin has slipped on the throat, to protect it.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Mary, could I take care of it? &gt;&gt; he whispers carefully, studying the woman's words and reaction.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; You are not able. You would make a big mess and I don't want to clean any more blood &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Let me at least try, please. I'm stuck here and I'm not used to all this stillness. I think it would be good for me to be able to take care of myself at least with a shave &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>The woman stops suddenly. Here is the catatonic state, indicating an ongoing reasoning.</p>
<p>"Please, please, please!" Sherlock thinks intensely, his hands clenched into fists. The woman wakes up and throws the razor on Sherlock's lap. Fortunately, the reflexes, although slowed down, still work and allow him to move his left arm away just before the blade hits him. Sherlock dares not imagine what would have happened if the blade had cut him. With a razor in hand, Mary's explosion of anger could only end in a very tragic way for Sherlock.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; I soap you and you shave &gt;&gt;  happily says the little girl Mary, pulling out of her pocket a jar of shaving cream and an old brush. She start preparing the cream carefully, mixing it with the brush. The beautiful cheerful smile lights up her face.</p>
<p>Sherlock takes the razor in his hand and rejoices in realizing how much stronger his grip is now. At the base of the blade there is a layer of what seems to being encrusted blood. Sherlock's stomach closes in disgust and not only from the idea of having to use a dirty razor and not even being able to try to clean it, for fear of unleashing her anger. Sherlock's stomach closes with the idea of how that blood got there. For some days now he has been accepting the deduction, so far put aside, that he is not the first to have had the good fortune of being rescued and treated by Mary. That object and its sad layer of dirt are bringing more evidence in favor of its terrible thesis.</p>
<p>Sherlock risks losing his grip on the razor handle, when the woman sits heavily beside him on the bed. Her huge thigh in contact with his bare side, sends a retch back to his throat.</p>
<p>Mary smiles at him, swirling the cream-soaked brush in front of his face. Sherlock squeezes the razor handle tightly in his right hand.</p>
<p>"Just do it!"</p>
<p>Moriarty's voice surprises him.</p>
<p>"Dying is what people do!" he shouts in his crazy voice and then chuckles satisfied. "A quick blow and you will get rid of her presence forever" entices him and the hand increases its grip around the handle.</p>
<p>"This woman is a tough nut to crack, Sherlock," John breaks in, warning him. "You could hit her and even seriously hurt her, but, before she even die or lose consciousness, Mary will have time to tear the razor from your hands and slice your throat or kill you with her bare hands."</p>
<p>John is right. Mary gives the idea of being able to stand alive stoically for a long time even unloading an entire loader on her, let alone what can do with a simple razor.</p>
<p>As he had foreseen, she spreeds the cream on Sherlock's face with the same care with which a bricklayer would spread the plaster on a rough wall. Mary pinches Sherlock's nose with that damned brush and he must resist sneezing, which is far from easy.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Here you are &gt;&gt; she says smiling. &lt;&lt; Now you can start &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>Sherlock looks at her in amazement.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Do you have a mirror, so that I can see what I do? &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>The woman freezes again and Sherlock fears the worst this time. She wakes up much quickley than usual and jumps to her feet, making the bed jump. Mary approaches the desk and from a drawer pulls out a round mirror set in a finely worked silver handle. She sit down again over the bed, smiling.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; There it is &gt;&gt; she says handing it to him.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Would you like to keep it up for me? &gt;&gt; asks and sees her cheeks blush with embarrassment. Sherlock fears that he has used too seductive a tone and bitterly regrets it. Fortunately, however, the woman just keeps the mirror half a meter away. Sherlock moves her hands a little more to his left and struggles to recognize the face reflected in the mirror.</p>
<p>He never considered himself beautiful. His face was judged expressionless by some and by the disturbing mimicry by others and, although he persist in saying that he is disinterested in the judgment of others, these considerations still weigh today as boulders. Sherlock has always been proud, however, of his eyes and hair. The cut, the shape and the particular color of his eyes have given him many positive awards. Even when they were judged disturbing, the judgment was expressed in a fascinated tone. The eyes of the man in the mirror are circled in black, tired and frightened. The sclera of the right eye, the one involved in the blow taken to the head, is bruised with broken capillaries that make it disgusting and terrible to look at. The color of the irises, then, is a dull gray, without any hope.</p>
<p>The hair, which Sherlock has always treated with care, is brittle, dry and dull. They have the form of an indefinite and rigid mass, like an ugly wig. His mother, in her rare expressions of tenderness, stroked them for a long time, whispering ecstatic 'What beautiful soft curls my baby has'. Somehow keeping them soft Sherlock tried to recreate that unusual and visceral pleasure that those sweet words moved inside him. Now even his mother would struggle to sink his hand in this hairs.</p>
<p>"This too will come back as before, you'll see," John whispers in his head. "Your hairs will come back as beautiful as before all this began."</p>
<p>Sherlock sighs, intimately unconvinced of the doctor's words. He feels day after day the terrible certainty that he will never come out of that room alive.</p>
<p>"Stop that!" exclaims the captain's voice. This is enough for him to shake himself and start shaving.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; This mirror is really beautiful, Mary &gt;&gt; he says, amazed to find an object undoubtedly of value in that room and in the hands of this woman.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; It was my mom's &gt;&gt; says the little girl Mary proudly. &lt;&lt; I kept it for her when she making braids. Her hair was veeeeeery long &gt;&gt; she says chuckling cheerfully. &lt;&lt; To my dad, however, I liked so much to put on his shaving cream, as I did to you, and then to watch him while he took it off. It is a magic to see how the face changes without all those hairs &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>Sherlock smiles. Yes, a sincere smile. Little girl Mary's version isn't all that bad. He would like to have her there always. As he removes the beard he realizes how the bruise on the right side of the head also extends to the cheek and cheekbone.</p>
<p>"The slap of the airbag" he thinks, happy not to have broken the bones of his face as well as those of his leg and, he fears, also some ribs. Sherlock must admit that he has less hollow cheeks, though. Regular nutrition with chicken and vegetable broth is taking effect.</p>
<p>"I told you that there is at least a positive side in this story." Sherlock smiles amused by John's joke and Mary responds in turn, by smiling. He must be careful of all that confidence.</p>
<p>"I'm still a pervert, for the Hide version of Mary, it's better that I remember it."</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; You have been good, you have not cut tyourself even once &gt;&gt; says Mary. She leans over to the basin in which she dips a towel, squeezes it and throws it in Sherlock's face. Mary presses it hard on Sherlock's face with her hands, taking his breath away for a long moment before removing it. She dipping it again, wringing it out and starting to rub Sherlock's cheeks, chin, forehead and nose vigorously.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Now you are decent! &gt;&gt; laughs, by placing the mirror one palm from his face. Sherlock sees that man with tired and terrified eyes with the only difference that he is now without a week's beard coat.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Thanks, Mary &gt;&gt; remembers to thank her and she blushes.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; You are beautiful, you know? &gt;&gt; she says awkwardly. She hesitantly bringing a hand close to Sherlock's healthy cheek and the light caress that rests on it worries him much more than the blows taken so far.</p>
<p>"No! Rather, I cut my veins and I am done with it, " Sherlock thinks, realizing that he is so tense that his teeth screech. Mary withdraws embarrassed and gently takes the razor out of his hand.</p>
<p>Sherlock finds himself thinking that, if the risk of all that joviality is to find her on him in too intimate attitudes, he prefere to unleash the ire of Mary's dangerous version. Sherlock already thinks of saying something that makes Mary angry, so as to remove that boeful smile from her face and those caressing attentions from her hands.</p>
<p>"She still has the razor with her. Don't play with fire, Sherlock," his brother Mycroft tells him.</p>
<p>"What if she occurred to her to ... play with me? What do I do? What the fuck I do, huh? "</p>
<p>"Survive, Sherlock."</p>
<p>More than words, the tone used by Mycroft affects him. Free of any emotional color. Live in spite of everything. Accept any kind of violence for the sake of survival.</p>
<p>"It's not for me," he says, while the huge woman gets up from the bed, making him sway like a boat in the throes of the rough sea. “Rather, I struggle and die in an attempt to defend myself. I'm not like you, Mycroft! ".</p>
<p>"I agree, Sherlock, but we'll take care of it when and if the opportunity arises, okay?" John intervenes. "She is a god-fearing woman. I really don't think she would risk anything more than the caress she gave you."</p>
<p>"The worst things happen in convents, John, don't you know?"</p>
<p>"I know, Sherlock. Anyway today it is gone. Now she will go down and until tomorrow you will not have to deal with her. Today the battle is over. "</p>
<p>"It's over, yes," Sherlock sighs as he look at Mary slipping towards the door.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Goodnight, Edward &gt;&gt; chirps.</p>
<p>She turns off the light and closes the door, leaving him in the dark.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; No. It is a crazy thing! &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>Inspector Hataway puts his hands on his hips, to emphasize  what the two Londoners have just asked him is light years away from being able to be achieved.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Out there is a storm going on. A storm, gentlemen, not a delicate and romantic Christmas snowfall &gt;&gt; he underlines, twisting his nose. &lt;&lt; You have already been crazy to get here to ask me what I had already told you by phone ... &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; What should we have done? &gt;&gt; John interrupts him. &lt;&lt; Rest assured, basking in the idea that Sherlock Holmes will surely be trapped in a ski club in the mountains? &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Yes &gt;&gt; the man answers. &lt;&lt; The weather alert is such that even the snow sweepers have been called up. People have been invited for four days to stay indoors. We got used, Dr. Watson. I thought your friend had been a fool, but seeing you I realize that he wasnt' the only! &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>John shivers. He woult like to jump at the neck of that useless homunculus who has deigned them only with grimaces of disgust and looks of sufficiency since they arrived. Greg puts his hand on John's shoulder beforehand.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Isn't it really possible to get in touch with the Sky Club? &gt;&gt; asks the colleague, who looks up to the sky, exasperated.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; How many times do I still have to repeat it? &gt;&gt; snorts, although, in truth, he only told them once and by phone. &lt;&lt; The storm has put the telephone lines and repeaters out of order &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; How is it possible that, if you are accustomed to these things, you have not taken steps to prevent similar situations! &gt;&gt; John shouts. &lt;&lt; We are talking about a club, not a private home. A place where many people gather. How is it possible that precautionary measures have not been taken even for minimum safety? We are in 2011, by god! &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>Hataway crosses his arms over his chest and frowns.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; You, a London's doctor who as a hobby helps a private investigator, want to come here, in the north west, to teach us how to deal with the rigors of our winters? &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>Greg claws John's shoulder again, who would like to shake him off and hit the old obtuse and prejudiced policeman.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Did the weather alert predict the duration of the storm? &gt;&gt; Greg asks, completely changing the subject to prevent a cataclysm of blows and kicks from breaking loose in that office.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; It should wane tomorrow night. Until then no one goes out! &gt;&gt; Hataway underlines, pointing the warning finger on them. &lt;&lt; The dormitory is free. You can stay there &gt;&gt; he concludes, giving them to intend to get out of the way.</p>
<p>Greg takes John by the arm and drags him out of the office. They reach the dormitory, which consists of six beds, and the doctor throws the bag, in which he has putted few things, over one of them.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Damn asshole! &gt;&gt; exclaims. &lt;&lt; And damn storm &gt;&gt; he adds, turned to the window with snow-caked glass.</p>
<p>John lets himself fall on the mattress, that creaks loudly. Plant his elbows on his knees and take his head in his hands.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; We are stuck here, Greg. We too &gt;&gt; mutters, heartbroken. &lt;&lt; I was an idiot to get you involved, but I really hoped to get some more information by coming here &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>Greg sits beside him and claps his hand on John's  shoulder blades.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; We just have to wait, John. We risk ending up like Jack Nicholson in "Shining" if we went out there &gt;&gt;. John chuckles nervously.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Jesus, apt quote, my friend &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Can you imagine Sherlock at the Overlook Hotel? &gt;&gt; asks Greg and both laugh.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Oh my God, I don't even imagine him in a Ski Club &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; He get stuck there for a week! His client bitterly regretted having contacted him &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; He and everyone else who got stuck there with him &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Sherlock will drive them crazy &gt;&gt;. John and Greg laugh heartily, breaking the tension, overcoming the roar of the storm that hits the windows.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; I hope this is really going on, Greg &gt;&gt; John whispers, serious. &lt;&lt; I hope that Sherlock is there, to risk being strangled by a crowd of tourists and club staff. I prefere this, instead that to know he is dead frozen &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Is this what you fear? &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; The last thing we know about him is that he would come down here to carry out the investigation. No matter how good he is at driving, the snow is fresh and the roads were in bad condition even before the storm arrived &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>Greg sighs at his side and tries several times to say something, but stopping before pronouncing a verb.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; I don't want to think about this eventuality, John &gt;&gt; he finally says. &lt;&lt; I prefer to imagine him horrified by the group of idiots with whom he finds himself forced to share too small a space. Like last Saturday. Do you remember what expression he had? &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Yes &gt;&gt; John whispers, who wants to think of everything except that evening, especially at this moment.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; He has drink an entire pint of beer just to get the situation down. I can't understand how your ex-comrades did to convince him to join us in the pub &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; They didn't convince him, Greg: they carried him to us and I was an idiot in not insisting that they stop &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Is that why you and Sherlock discussed after? He was definitely drunk. It must not have been a nice return home &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>"Quite the opposite, Greg, far from it!" John thinks, but it's just a sigh that he misses. Greg looks at him curiously but says nothing more. They are there, both with their elbows resting on their knees, staring at the bed in front, while the wind dominates out there. It insinuates itself into the fixtures. It produces shout-like sounds.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; I made a mess, Greg &gt;&gt; throws John out, feeling the need to download the sense of guilt.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Don't be too harsh on yourself, John. We are here and we will do something. If it were also to break the balls to Hataway to the point of giving us a snowcat and sending us out there, not caring about the tragic consequences of our crazy gesture &gt;&gt; chuckles and John joins him. John thought he would feel relieved that the detective hadn't grasped what he was really referring to with that sentence. Instead, another sigh escapes him.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; I didn't behave well with Sherlock &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Since returning from the pub, you mean? &gt;&gt; Greg asks him and John nods, carefully watching the wooden floor under the snow-wet boots. &lt;&lt; Oh my God, it is already difficult to deal with him when he is sober, I dare not imagine when he is drunk &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; No, Greg &gt;&gt; sighs again. &lt;&lt; Alcohol has nothing to do with it. Not the way you think, at least &gt;&gt; John just glances at the detective. Greg watches him for a long time and though John keeps his eyes down he can imagine his left eyebrow arching as he tries to make sense of his words.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; What the hell happened on Saturday night, John? &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; What can happen between two people who have gone too far in drinking &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>Greg thinks about it for a moment.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Two men who exceed in drinking, usually can get to the hands ... but this does not seem your case to me &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; No, that's not it &gt;&gt; John admits, bringing his hands to his head again.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; ... ok &gt;&gt; Greg says uncertainly straightening his back. &lt;&lt; Nothing violent, I hope &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Of course not, Greg! &gt;&gt; John says, turning to him.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Sorry, it's ... you says me that you and Sherlock had an argue ... &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; And in your logic a quarrel, in this case, follows an attempted violence? &gt;&gt; growls John and does not even know why he is getting angry like that.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Hey, calm down, John. I used the wrong words, sorry. Is that ... Jesus, I did not expect such a thing, be patient! &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; No, Greg, I'm wrong, sorry  &gt;&gt; he sighs. &lt;&lt; It's that ... maybe a bit I feel like I have abused him. I should have stopped, I was the more sober of the two. Instead ... &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>The roar of the storm returns to fill the silence. The cries of the wind that emerges from the hinges to crawl the skin.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Instead you quarreled &gt;&gt; Greg resumes breaking the silence.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Oh, Jesus, yes &gt;&gt; John sighs, letting his head dangle in his arms. &lt;&lt; He ... was so peaceful. Quiet. Different from the usual, in short, and I ... I got scared, Greg. I was afraid of him &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Fear of him &gt;&gt; repeats Greg amazed. &lt;&lt; That he wanted something more? A recognized relationship? &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; No. Or rather ... at the beginning I told myself with these bullshit &gt;&gt; he admits, passing his hand over his tired face. &lt;&lt; The reputation, the gossip, things like that. It is not that, however, that has frightened me &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; I don't see what else it could. I mean, you have a reputation to being with women on three continents! &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; It wasn't just women, Greg. Sherlock was not the first! &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>Lestrade remains of salt after this other revelation.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Come on, I thought you understood. My friends weren't that much between the lines on Saturday &gt;&gt; says John, taking on the same absurdity and tone as Sherlock's obvious.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Honestly, I thought they were playing with double meanings, John. Since I know you, I have only seen you dating women. God, what an evening &gt;&gt; Greg sighs, putting his elbows over his knees again. He also takes his head in his hands, this time. &lt;&lt; So, if Sherlock wasn't the first, what scared you? &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; He is in love with me, Greg &gt;&gt; whispers to the point that the detective has to get a little closer to him in order to hear. &lt;&lt; I thought he wasn't able to love. Jesus does nothing but reiterate how stupid feelings are! Instead I saw this love. I heard it and ... he also told me &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Oh, fuck &gt;&gt; shakes the head Greg. &lt;&lt; But for you it was just an adventure. The next day you told him and he got pissed. I can imagine the scene that made you &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; No scene, Greg &gt;&gt; corrects him John. &lt;&lt; I think it's the worst thing. His gaze. Its silence. Jesus, what an idiot I am! &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Why idiot, John? Not very careful because of alcohol and in a situation that I don't envy you at all, but why an idiot? &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Because it wasn't just an adventure for me, Greg! &gt;&gt; he blurts out, standing up, leaving the detective with his mouth open for the third time. &lt;&lt; I am also ... in love with him &gt;&gt; whispers, bringing a hand to his mouth, as to keep hidden a secret too big even to pronounce. &lt;&lt; That ... wow, it was already crazy what had happened. Hearing him say those words ... seeing him so serene and at peace ... it was too much. Too much for me. I ... I felt I didn't deserve it and ... &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; And ... &gt;&gt; Greg urges him.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; I told him that what had happened should never have happened. That it had been the fault of alcohol and that it was better for both of us to forget everything &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>The wind whistles loudly and the creaking of the glass frozen by the snow becomes almost perceptible.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Yes, you are an idiot! &gt;&gt; says Greg, crossing his arms over his chest, his severe face. &lt;&lt; Though one cannot claim to be loved, if I was in Sherlock's shoes, I would have hitten you, John. Because of your non-existent self-esteem, you hurt Sherlock just when, also thanks to alcohol, he showed you his feelings, the ones he keeps damn well hidden. Well, at least now I know why we're here! &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; He will never forgive me. Even if he were really in danger and I saved him from certain death. I don't hope that a heroic act will change the disaster I made, Greg &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Yes, you're right. Knowing Sherlock, things won't change. You, however, hope so. Sorry if I tell you, but this is also a low blow on your part &gt;&gt; he says standing up. &lt;&lt; I saw Sherlock half killed by drugs, John. You have spared this part of him, but I have known him with arms full of holes and pupils like suckers. I wouldn't have bet a penny, yet it was enough for me to throw a proposal, 'if you stop with this stuff I will allow you to collaborate with me' and he did it. Sherlock made a serious effort and did it. Mycroft himself thanked me for saving his brother. I'm convinced that was Sherlock who saved himself, but if a really small part of success depended on me, then I'm proud of it and it pisses me deeply to think that, because of you, he can throw everything away, John! &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>Greg faces him. A palm from John's face, Greg looks at him with stern eyes that he has never seen. Don't turn to him, at least.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; I will stay here and I'll do everything I can to help you find Sherlock. If afterwards, however, the balance that he has maintained also thanks to your arrival should completely break, then I will no longer help you, John. I'm sorry to be so severe, but you have no idea the extent of the damage you may have caused. Now I am also seriously worried about his safety, not necessarily put at risk by this storm &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>John's stomach closes. For Greg's words. For the accusation that he do to him. For the guilt he further touch with those words. Words that give way to Sherlock's, whispering in John's ear, blow on his skin, scream in the highest moment of pleasure.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; All this is beautiful, John &gt;&gt; Sherlock said.</p>
<p>Yes it was. It really was. And like all the good things that happened to him, John did the only thing he did well: he broke it and threw it away.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. November 18th</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>November 18th</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Sherlock looks at the pit full of corpses. He stands at the edge of this secret cemetery and is watching the worms over rotting bodies. Sherlock crouches down to be able to see them better. Smalls and plumps, they nibble the flesh once alive without having pain or torment. Without wondering where this food that feeds them comes from, who it was, how it lived, what it fed in turn. None of the silly questions that humans usually ask themselves about the food they eat.</p>
<p>"This is what we are" he thinks enraptured by the rapid movement of the larvae. “Minds trapped in a means of transport, destined to become food for necrophagous insects. What's the point of all this? " he asks himself, getting up.</p>
<p>Sherlock turns his gaze in front of him and sees a estate far beyond the wood in which it is found.</p>
<p>It's snowing. He walks along a natural path, hearing shrill and creepy cries in the distance.</p>
<p>Sherlock arrives in front of the gate of the estate. An economy car of few pretensions, is parked out front. He cautiously approaches, while the cries carried by the wind get louder and louder.</p>
<p>Sherlock sees a body lying on the pavement at a fair distance between the car and the gate. Lying on his stomach. The head pours into a pool of blood that still expands.</p>
<p>"Recently murdered" Sherlock deduces. He does not come close to the body. There is nothing he can do for that man, except deduce that he was killed by a close-up shot, which exploded by a person who was leaning against the car. Car owned by the deceased himself.</p>
<p>Sherlock looks at the footprints in the snow. The man was not alone with his assassin. There are other footprints, smaller, some very small.</p>
<p>"A child" deduces. They run through the gate, chased by the murderer's footprints.</p>
<p>An even more acute cry than the previous ones startles the consultant. Slowly Sherlock continue his walk. Go through the gate, crawling through the space that is already open. He doesn't want to move it. He can't stand his screeching squeak.</p>
<p>Sherlock follow the footprints to the entrance of the building. The door is open, wide open. The precious carpet of the large living room has been dirtied by footprints of excited run. It will remain stained forever.</p>
<p>Sherlock follows in the footsteps, that branch out between overturned tables, chairs moved without grace. On the large burgundy fabric sofa the fugitive ended his run. Sherlock deduces it from the soft cushions, bruised and fallen on the floor in disorder.</p>
<p>“The person falled against it. The person was running, looking over the shoulder, and stumbled against the cushions "</p>
<p>Other footprints, the little ones of the child, start from there heading towards the stairs.</p>
<p>“The person saved him. The person shouted at the child to run away, run as much as he can, and hide himself "and the child obeyed. Frightened. Maybe he didn't want to leave the person, but this must have insisted. A woman, of course. It can only be a woman. Women are used to being with children, aren't they?</p>
<p>Sherlock obteined a confirmation thanks to another body, lying on the floor next to the majestic black marble fireplace. He stops a few steps from the corpse and watches her attentively. A beautiful black-haired woman, who had to be styled so that the curls fell on her pale shoulders. The hairs are now broken up, messy, stained with blood. The face has been hit several times. Scratched. Bite with ferocity. Torn clothes.</p>
<p>"Barbarously raped," Sherlock says, looking away from the lower body. After the violence, after the punches, she was stabbed several times with the poker. The woman's glassy eyes are open, blind, looking at the ceiling. Sherlock looks at them curiously.</p>
<p>“The worms will come for you too. They'll be here soon, ” Sherlock thinks, and another high-pitched scream touches his skin. The child. His steps run to the kitchen. Sherlock hurries to follow them.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Where are you, little bastard? Where are you?! &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>Sherlock stops at the sound of that angry voice. He is trembling from head to toe, frightened, as if that man is chasing him.</p>
<p>"The child. He's the one who wants! " Sherlock thinks to give himself courage and force his body to move. Another cry, certainly launched by the terrified child, helps him to move.</p>
<p>"I don't permit you to kill him too," Sherlock thinks as he enters the large kitchen. A small wooden door was opened with enough force to unhinge it and hangs miserably on one side. A tall man, dressed in a long dark coat with a raised collar, gives Sherlock his shoulders. The man is breathless and his hands are on his face. Sherlock sees only the tuft of light brown hair ruffled by the rush.</p>
<p>At his feet there is  the body of a child no more than five years old.</p>
<p>"He passed out," Sherlcok says. "The man threw him against the wall," he notes, from the number of kitchen utensils, pots and pans that fell on the floor from the shelves against which the small body hit.</p>
<p>The man grabs a large knife. He steps a few steps towards the child's body and raises his arm over the child's head, ready to hit him.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; No! &gt;&gt; Sherlock exclaims, drawing his attention. The man laughs. A terrible laugh. He turns slowly, still clutching the knife.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; You have finally arrived &gt;&gt; he says.</p>
<p>"Mycroft!" Sherlock thinks, his throat too dry to scream. He is about to take a step back, but gets stuck in doubt. Sherlock take a closer look at the pale, flesh-faced face, surrounded by tousled hair, but sparse on the forehead. The dark and crazy eyes that are pointing at him are not Mycroft's. The white and slightly crooked teeth he sees from the terrible grin that the man addresses to him are not those of his brother.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; You still gave way to talk about you and throw mud on this family! &gt;&gt; growls, moving threateningly towards him. &lt;&lt; I should have killed you then. I made a serious mistake in thinking you were already dead. You have always been stubborn, William. I had to expect that you had a rather hard head &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>Sherlock backs away frightened. The man's arm rises again and the sharp blade points him, eager to sink into his flesh.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Please &gt;&gt; Sherlock can barely whisper as he backs away terrified.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; For what? For a quick and painless death? &gt;&gt; the man laughs. &lt;&lt; I don't think so, kid! &gt;&gt; retorts serious, his face turned expressionless and therefore even more terrifying. &lt;&lt; You are the dishonor of this family, damn bastard. A junkie, pederast devoid of any honor. You are not worthy to bear my name! &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>Sherlock shouts trying to protect himself from the blade that he will soon feel sinking into his flesh.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Sherlock opens his eyes and finds himself sitting on the bed. The wind creeps between the fixtures, producing that sound so similar to a cry.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; A nightmare? &gt;&gt; he wonders in amazement. It was so real. So damn real.</p>
<p>He shudders from head to foot, wet with sweat. Sherlock looking for comfort in a self-embrace that, however, very little warms him. Those images, those terrible images come back to him overbearing.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; It is morphine. It's starting to open the secret drawers of my Mind Palace &gt;&gt; he whispers, between sobs.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; What is a Mind Palace? &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>Sherlock winces at Mary's question. Fortunately, there are the lively eyes of her child version in her face.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; You shouted. Many times &gt;&gt; she says. Sherlock didn't hear her go up the stairs. He didn't realize how firm she was at the door. Mary-child's eyes look at him curiously, leaning on the chair next to the bed.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; I had a nightmare, Mary. I'm sorry &gt;&gt; says promptly. The last thing Sherlock wants now is activate her violent part. He wouldn't be able to stand it after the nightmare he had just had. It would be an insane continuation in the world of reality and Sherlock feels he would go completely mad if it happened.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Do you regret having had a nightmare? &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Yes, but I'm more sorry to have woken you up &gt;&gt; he says cautiously.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; I wasn't sleeping &gt;&gt; she says, chuckling. &lt;&lt; I never sleep &gt;&gt; adds all smiling.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Why? &gt;&gt; he asks, amazed by this characteristic that unites them. Although he, in truth, sleeps little not never.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; I don't want to have the same thing &gt;&gt; she says, indicating Sherlock.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Do you have nightmares if you sleep? &gt;&gt; he asks and a spasm shakes him from head to toe, now that the tension is leaving him and the body cools down. Mary takes off the shawl she has wrapped around her shoulders and gently lays it around Sherlock's shoulders. Sherlock feels immense well-being in the warmth of that warm hug.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Thanks &gt;&gt; he whispers, moved, holding the shawl with his hands to feel it more firmly on the skin.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Tell me about your nightmare &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; It is not nice to hear &gt;&gt; he shakes the head. Sherlock does wont to reliving everything.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; If you tell it, it will go &gt;&gt; Mary- child encourages him with a smile &lt;&lt; I always do it &gt;&gt;. Sherlock looks at her for a long time. Mary untied her hair, which she usually holds tied in a tight bun, and now it falls around her face. In the twilight of the light of the snow that vibrates against the window, that rough face, which becomes mulled when the Mary-child moves the massive body, takes on tones that should be terrible but that Sherlock, now, finds to be even sweeter.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Who do you tell about your nightmares to? &gt;&gt; Sherlock asks in amazement, since he has never felt any other living soul present in the house.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; To my dolls. I have five of them in my bedroom and they listen to me and make the nightmare go away &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>Sherlock smiles, thinking about his skull. He didn't talk to him about his nightmares, but he shared case theories with him. The skull has always listened to him without ever replying, helping him considerably, he must admit, to find the key to the problems.</p>
<p>Mary gently takes Sherlock's right hand, tight on the shawl, and holds it between hers, so unexpectedly warm. She nods, inviting him to open up.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; I dreamed about my father &gt;&gt; Sherlock says, shaking her hand. &lt;&lt; He ... was a monster &gt;&gt; stops, his throat tightened with emotion. &lt;&lt; He killed my mother and her lover<a href="#_ftn1" id="_ftnref1" name="_ftnref1">[1]</a> and he was close to killing me too &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>Sherlock brings his left hand to the back of the neck, without realizing it. He feels under his fingers the thick scar that had given him the torment in the first days after waking up from the short period of coma.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Oh &gt;&gt; Mary whispers. &lt;&lt; Were you a child? &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; I was five years old. It was a horrible dream &gt;&gt; he says in tears.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Yes &gt;&gt; Mary agrees. Bring her other hand close to Sherlock's face and lightly wipe away his tears. &lt;&lt; Even my dad was bad. And my brothers too. Also my mom, to be honest &gt;&gt; adds Mary, as if she realized it now.</p>
<p>"She is reasoning without becoming catatonic" Sherlock notes, fascinated by this new and unusual thing, but fortunately without danger and pain.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Did your dad lock you in the storage room to punish you? &gt;&gt; Mary asks him, moving the chair closer to the bed.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; No. I closed myself when I didn't want to be found. I had a secret hiding place in the kitchen &gt;&gt; he replies, thinking back to the door poised on broken hinges.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; I can't stand small spaces &gt;&gt; Mary whispers, gently shaking his hand. &lt;&lt; Dad closed me in the storage room every time I did something wrong. He pulled me by the arm and closed me there and if I cried, frightened by the darkness and the spiders, he would beat the door, saying that he would have killed me if I hadn't stopped immediately &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>Mary smiles. Despite the brutality of what she just told him, she smiles. As if what her father was doing was stupid and foolish.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Did you often do something that didn't go well? &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Every day &gt;&gt; nods Mary, amused. &lt;&lt; Even if I did not understand what was wrong &gt;&gt; adds seriously, bringing a finger to the chin. She thinks about it for a few moments and then shakes her head, smiling amused. &lt;&lt; Did your mom love you? &gt;&gt; asks him, touching another hot topic.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; I ... I don't know. I think so. In her way. She ... she wasn't very affectionate. She liked my hair &gt;&gt; Sherlock says, sketching a smile.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; She is right, they are beautiful &gt;&gt; Mary laughs, slowly moving aside a Sherlock's now arid forelock that has fallen to cover his healthy eye. &lt;&lt; My mom never laughed. She always screamed and beat me a lot. Dad never hit me, mom, however, many times &gt;&gt; Mary says, embarrassed.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Why did she beat you? &gt;&gt; he asks, stunned by her wrong way of telling these things. She should cry, be sad or at most toneless and expressionless and instead she laugh, smile and embarrass herself.</p>
<p>"It does not make sense!" Sherlock's upset mind shouts.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Because I'm distracted and clumsy! &gt;&gt; Mary says, surely reporting what her mother was saying constantly. &lt;&lt; If I dropped a cup by mistake, a slap would fly. If I hung badly, even only a clothes of the freshly made laundry, she would kick me. If I didn't finish in time the commissions she assigned me and if they weren't the way she wanted them, mom were hit me with the belt. I worked hard to do everything well, but the straps arrived the same. I'm really a landslide &gt;&gt; Mary laughs amused and it's not a hysterical laugh. No. It's a laugh of real fun.</p>
<p>"It does not make sense!" Sherlock repeats to himself, feeling his stomach close more and more.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Do you love your parents, Mary? &gt;&gt; asks her without even knowing why he's doing it.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Oh yes! &gt;&gt; Mary replies, as he expected &lt;&lt; They are good to me. They could have killed me, they always said it, and instead they never did it &gt;&gt; laughs cheerfully. &lt;&lt; You, on the other hand, don't love your dad, do you? &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; I hated him. I've always hated him &gt;&gt; Sherlock admits.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Yes, he really tried to kill you &gt;&gt; Mary says, with a logic of her own, very child. Sherlock had a violent father and an absent mother, but, although his childhood was not happy, he is light years away from the one made of continuous violence that Mary is telling him. A story that is not the result of her imagination. Sherlock feels it corresponds to the reality that this woman found herself living in the desolation of this place, lost and isolated from the world.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Do you have brothers, you? &gt;&gt; Mary asks.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Yes. M ... Myke &gt;&gt; Sherlock reply, remembering that it is still undercover</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; One only! &gt;&gt; Mary exclaims surprise. &lt;&lt; I have five &gt;&gt; she says proudly.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Five brothers? Are you the only female? &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Yes, the smallest. Freddie always told me that I was born by mistake. Mom was fed up with having children and when she found out about me she tried to have an abortion but she couldn't. This is why I was born stupid &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Oh my God &gt;&gt; exclaims Sherlock horrified. &lt;&lt; It is a very bad thing to say &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; But no, he jokes &gt;&gt; Mary laughs amused. &lt;&lt; My brothers love playing with me &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>Sherlock would like to tell her to stop talking about her family of sadistic madmen, but Mary seems to have removed the cap. Sherlock is afraid that by now she will consider him as one of her dolls, forced to stay there to listen to her tell her nightmares. Except that those are not dreams, the result of a tormented unconscious, but the cruel reality.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Where are your brothers now, Mary &gt;&gt; asks her and the woman suddenly shuts up. Sherlock fears that he has taken a false step. Now, she will fall into a trance and the violent Mary will come out and put an end to Sherlock's suffering once and for all. Instead, the Mary-child shakes her head and shrugs.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; I don't know, Edward. They were here and then they were gone. I think they went away. They were older and worked. When dad died, nobody came here to be visited. When mum died, me and my brothers were the only ones left and then ... and then I was the only one left &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>The first authentic expression of sadness. An anguished child's pout. The lower lip begins to tremble, but Mary squints hard and when she opens them she is happy again.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Now, however, you are here with me &gt;&gt; she says and in the way she shakes his hands, in the sweetness of her gaze, in the infinite tenderness that is able to arouse the child version of this woman, Sherlock realizes that she won't let him go. No. Not even when the leg will heals. Not even when the blizzard will ends and the snow melts. Mary will not allow him to leave her alone again.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p><a href="#_ftnref1" id="_ftn1" name="_ftn1">[1]</a> Quote from 'The seven percent solution' by Nicholas Meyer</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. November 23th</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>November 23th</p>
<p> </p>
<p>John stands at the edge of the precipice. He cannot take his eyes off the car that is barely visible, half submerged by the snow. Men, ensured with climbing ropes, are digging the car up in an attempt to find out who occupies it.</p>
<p>Five days have passed since the storm gave them a truce. Days when there were still mild snowfalls which then gave way to a great cutting cold. Hataway was forced to give John and Greg a snowcat to take them to the Ski Club and there they discovered the first sad truth.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Mister Holmes? I ... I thought he came to the police station. He left the club on November 10th in the morning in the car he had rented &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p> Sherlock rented the car under the name Edward Nolton, they had discovered. He was investigating undercover, Hugh Paddington explained, to carry out his investigations undisturbed.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; That damned pit. Mr Holmes speculated that it may have been the work of one of my former attendants, the old Stilton. I sent him away because he had opposed with all his might at the beginning of the works, saying that the area where we wanted to build the new branch of the Club was friable and everything would collapse. The architect disagreed and neither did the geologist that I contacted. When the pit was discover, Hataway also went to knock on Stilton's door to find out if he had to do with those corpses. The man denied it and the inspector was agree with him. "Stilton's a little screwed up, but he isnt a killer, Hugh," he said to me. Mr. Holmes, however, took the matter seriously and therefore decided to investigate undercover. Or, at least, so he told me &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>John is therefore preparing. Because those men could extract from the car a corps that does not resemble Sherlock at all. Only when John would have found the corps in front of him would he have been able to say otherwise. A shiver runs through him and the doctor tucks his scarf and hat in an attempt to overcome the freezing cold of these mountains. Greg, standing behind him, observes the recovery operations. The license plate of the vehicle has blown because of the impact and for the moment the only correspondence is the car's model rented by Sherlock.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Do you think it is appropriate to warn his brother? &gt;&gt; whispers.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; It is useless to hope for a miracle, Greg: that is the car that Sherlock has rented. He has been too long under it to hope that he is alive &gt;&gt; says John coldly. Greg looks at him in amazement, but he can't help nodding. &lt;&lt; If I haven't called him yet, it's because I don't want Mycroft Holmes here. I would be too tempted to throw him off a cliff and I don't feel like finishing the rest of my days in jall because of him &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Yes, I would say that it is not worth it, John &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>The detective places his hand on his shoulder and the doctor slowly turns to him. John is trying to maintain a dignified demeanor, despite the storm inside of him, that is worthy of what has recently left them. A demeanor that John carries on from the moment Hugh Paddington confirmed his suspicions. Sherlock had really gone away from the club and ended up off track. That image, that he had kept dormant and immediately pushed back into the depths of his unconscious when he timidly went up to his mind's eyes, came true. It took two days to get Hataway to start the search. Two more to find the exact spot from which Sherlock flew down. Another to find the right front wheel from the white and soft snow's blanket. Until today, the day when a team of local volunteers has decided to descend to see who the soul that the mountain has claimed &gt;&gt;</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Greg &gt;&gt; John whispers, feeling crumble the mask of cold and logical rationality he has worn so far. He accepts the shoulder that the detective offers him and puts his forehead on it. It takes him a while to explode into tears, to cling to his friend with nervous gestures, shaken by convulsive sobs. Hataway and his men take a look at him and then turn respectfully to the other side. John doesn't care what those people are thinking. His best friend, the man he loves, is dead. This stupid way to died makes him angry. After all the stunts and the dangerouse adventures he has experienced.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Off the road, Greg. Sherlock ended up out of the way! Someone like him who dies from a banal car accident caused by snow! &gt;&gt; John shouts against the detective's shoulder, who just keeps him on his feet, unable to say anything.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Hey, up there! &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>A scream comes down and John holds his breath. He knows they are going to say it. They are about to announce that they have found a man's corps, the seat belt still inserted and the face covereb by the exploded airbag .</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; There is no one here! &gt;&gt; instead shouts one of the rescuers. John quickly pulls away from Greg. He dry his face, by leaning over the edge of the ravine.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; What is mean this? &gt;&gt; John shouts at the men who almost completely freed the car from the snow. This is upside down. The four wheels in plain sight.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; It mean that nobody is behind the wheel&gt;&gt; replies one of them.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Could be that he was thrown out? &gt;&gt; asks Greg.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; I have no idea. The airbag has exploded, but the car door is closed &gt;&gt; the man reply.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; This does not mean anything. The car door could have cloded by falling &gt;&gt; mutters John.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Tom, keep on digging. We have to find the corps &gt;&gt; Hataway tells them.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; It could have ended anywhere, Jason! &gt;&gt; one of them shouts back. &lt;&lt; Do you have any idea how much snow there is here? &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; I see the snow, Bryan. Keep looking, I don't want to keep them here until spring &gt;&gt; the detective says, pointing to Greg and John. The men cast grim looks at the two Londoners, but continue to dig. Others are added to help them harness the car and a crane is taken to be able to bring it back to the road.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; I guess you want to control it &gt;&gt; Hataway tells irritably, to John and Greg.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Excellent deduction, colleague &gt;&gt; retorts Greg.</p>
<p>It spends the whole morning before the SUV is brought back to the road and repositioned with the four wheels on the ground. Greg and John don't waste time examining the vehicle, dented on the left side. The headlight of the car was totally destroyed by the violent impact.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Sherlock must have crashed into that tree &gt;&gt; says Greg, pointing to a tree with a large stem hovering between the road and the precipice. He goes to remove the layer of snow deposited on the trunk and finds the marks of the paint.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; The impact must have broken that large branch that destroied the windshield &gt;&gt; continues Hataway, indicating the huge branch that slipped a little further and held back by another tree.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; A team of technicians would do better &gt;&gt; Greg whispers, observing the driver's seat belt which seems to have been voluntarily released.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; It is not important what there is, Greg, but what there isn't &gt;&gt; says John, who opened the rear door and the hood, while the two policemen were trying to understand how the accident had gone.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; What do you mean, doctor &gt;&gt; asks Hataway, amused by his statement.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Paddington said Sherlock had a suitcase with him. The trolley that he usually uses when traveling on business. This suitcase is nowhere &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>The two policemen look at each other in amazement. They move the doctor to check the rear seats and the trunk.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; It cannot have fallen on impact. Sherlock is methodical, he would never put a suitcase in a place other than a luggage rack &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; That's right, Greg! &gt;&gt; John exclaims. &lt;&lt; If the trolley is not there, it means that someone has taken it &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; This is impossible, doctor? &gt;&gt; exclaims Hataway. &lt;&lt; You also saw where the car was and I can't believe that someone would risk their lives to help a stranger or to rob him &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; I ... I do not think that the car ended immediately in the precipice &gt;&gt; says John, his eyes fixed on the trunk of the tree against which the car impacted. &lt;&lt; The car remained in the balance, Greg &gt;&gt; he says running to the trunk. &lt;&lt; It remained in the balance and must then be collapsed down, driven by the storm &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; This is only a hypothesis, doctor &gt;&gt; Hataway replies. &lt;&lt; It doesn't take away from the fact that, even if it were, your friend wouldn't have survived the storm all this time if he stayed outdoors &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; What if it wasn't outdoors? &gt;&gt; John challenges him, exasperated by his rowing against. &lt;&lt; If someone had passed here before the storm raged and had rescued him? &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>Hataway chuckles, shaking his head.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Do you really don't want to resign yourself, huh? &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>John can't be indifferent to this umpteenth sardonic laugh. He grab the cop for the collar of the jacket with such force that he can be lifted off the ground and pushed against a tree. The impact is such that some snowdrifts fall from the branches and dust their jackets.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Listen to me &gt;&gt;, John growls, holding the man against the trunk of the tree, &lt;&lt; I do not know how you behaves with friends, assuming you has someone, but I usually do not lose hope until I see the corps's lifeless with my own eyes! I fathomed the Afghan desert and the cities ruined by bombs in search of my fellow soldiers, when I was at war, and I never lost hope of finding them alive until, unfortunately, I found the opposite. I have rescued many, thanks to my lack of ability to resign myself to what that for you is an evidence! So now you'll do me the favor of stopping to break my balls and let me find my friend. And if you don't want to waste your breath and men to help me, go away with all your entourage. I am able to manage alone here &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>John lets him go and, with surprise, Hataway touches the ground from which he had been separated by an abundant number of centimeters. The detective adjusts his jacket, by looking up at John, who hasn't looked away from his face for a moment.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Have you been to Afghanistan, doctor? &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; That's what I just told you, yes &gt;&gt; says John, acid.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; What was your rank? &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Captain of the Rifleman Northumberland. Why you ask me this, now? &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; My brother died in that desert shit &gt;&gt; Hataway adds, twisting his nose. &lt;&lt; Missing. So they said. If he had been at your command, perhaps now he would be alive or, at least, we would have a body to cry on &gt;&gt; he says, looking away. &lt;&lt; Umbridge, Southlow, form a team of five volunteers each and beat the area around here. We are looking for the corps of a man between thirty and forty years of age. MacAllister, you put another one together and go around all the districts, let's see if someone rescued a man and took him home. The roads to the hospital are impractical when it snows like this. Once upon a time, those who were sick went to Dr. Liland Abbott. Does Mary still go down to Jo's shop for shopping, Mac? &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Yes, boss. She has not been seen since the storm stopped breaking ... &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Ok ok, stop by Jo and tell him to warn anyone who comes to him that we are looking for a man. Do you have a photo of Mr Holmes, Captain? &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>John is still amazed by this sudden change. He takes a moment to shake, before answering.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Sherlock was undercover, inspector. Which means he will have made himself unrecognizable. He is able to do it &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; I don't know how it can be possible, but in any case after all these days any disguise will be extinct. Obviously if he is still alive &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Obviously &gt;&gt; echoes John. &lt;&lt; I don't have a photo with me, but we can retrieve it from my blog &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Perfect. Let's go back to the central, then. We will print some to distribute in the districts and hang them at the meeting points. If your friend is alive, Captain, we will find him. Rumors are running fast in such a small country &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Thank you, Inspector &gt;&gt; John says, holding out his hand. The man squeezes it in passing and then goes to the car.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; This Abbott, my colleague ... &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; He is dead &gt;&gt; the inspectore interrupts him. &lt;&lt; It's been five years now. He slipped on the frozen steps of his cellar and broke his neck bone. The eldest son, Jack, came to call me. A tragic misfortune. He was good. Bad character, heavy hand on their children, too, but he knew do  his work. He saved many lives and helped to gave birth to others. His home was transformed into a real hospital in seasons like this. We miss the presence of a doctor here. The closest, when Keswick is unreachable, is in Penrith, not just around the corner &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>***</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Sherlock wakes up in sudden silence. Heavy silence. Spectral. After days of perennially vibrant glass and shaken by the wrath of the wind, of screaming and chilling drafts, of wooden crunches, sometimes so strong as to make people fear that everything could collapse on him at any moment, now silence reigns.</p>
<p>Sherlock sits on the bed and looks around, disoriented. The broken leg sends him a painful tingling muffled by morphine, but still capable of blocking it there.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Mary! &gt;&gt; calls and his voice echoes in the room.</p>
<p>He gets no answer downstairs. No thud of footsteps to make the steps creak.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Mary! &gt;&gt; repeats, while the heart beats hard in the chest.</p>
<p>Alone in the silence. No. He doesn't want to be. It is too strange.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Mary !! &gt;&gt; cries in the face of a nascent panic. He pushing aside the sheets, ready to get out of bed and who cares about the leg in traction, the pain, the reproaches on Mary's part, too.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Mary !! &gt;&gt; screams and finally something moves.</p>
<p>Accelerated steps. Maybe she will be angry, maybe she will beat him, because Sherlock has certainly disturbed her. The evil Mary will arrive and not the sweet and caring child. He does not matter. Those quick steps cheer him up. Sherlock go back to cover himself, suddenly feeling cold. Chills shake him from head to toe. Mary comes to the landing, open the door away abruptly and look at him with worried and lively eyes.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Edward, what's going on? &gt;&gt; asks the child Mary and, feeling himself the greatest of idiots, Sherlock melts into tears. She approaches and, with this new delicacy that she has shown him since the day of shaving, Mary places her hand in Sherlock's hair in an attempt to cheer him up. Sherlock promptly grabs it and sinks it into his face, feeling the scent of pine, iron and sawdust.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; You were cutting wood. That's why you didn't hear me right away &gt;&gt; he says, abandoning himself in that huge hand full of calluses, but so comfortable. Mary is amazed, as she was amazed the day before when she witnessed her deductions for the first time.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Exactly &gt;&gt; she smiles as if he had just shown her a trick. &lt;&lt; Why did you call me, Eddy? What happens? &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; The silence. All this silence scared me &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Oh, silly &gt;&gt; chuckles Mary, moving her hand against his face. &lt;&lt; The storm is over. There is always silence when it ends &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; It is terrible! &gt;&gt; Sherlock says, clinging to that hand, not at all intent on detaching from it.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Don't you like silence? &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; No. I hate him. It's like being deaf. The points of reference are lost and it always seems that something must happen at any moment. I am never in the silence, never &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; I think that no one is ever really in the silence in a city &gt;&gt; she says, pulling out one of those sensible reasonings that Sherlock recently discovered the child Mary knows to do.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; I miss my violin &gt;&gt; he sobs, squinting eyes that shed more tears.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Do you play the violin? &gt;&gt; exclaims Mary with a big smile on her lips. Sherlock nods. &lt;&lt; Wait here &gt;&gt; she says, abruptly removing her hands from Sherlock's face. The attempt to hold her back is worthless. Mary gets rid of him easily despite his grip was strong.</p>
<p>"Sherlock, what's going on with you?" John asks, with more than a note of concern in his voice. The consultant does not answer him. Sherlock's had a lot of dreams these days. The side effects of taking morphine for too long a period have started to make themselves felt with this perennial drowsiness.</p>
<p>In dreams Sherlock returned to many episodes of his past. From some of these he woke up panting, from others in tears, from others even screaming. Sherlock always found Mary- child sitting on the chair. A wet handkerchief in one hand, ready to wipe away sweat, and a glass of water in the other.</p>
<p>The presence of this version of Mary alerted him at the beginning. Over time, however, and with the succession of sudden awakenings, Sherlock got used to her, to her smiles, to her cares, that reassured him a lot. He told her his dreams feeling the need to speak and Mary listened to him kidnapped, like a little girl listening to a fairy tale before going to sleep. Except that Sherlock's stories are not fairy tales. Those dreams are shreds of his childhood. The brutality of his father. The death of his mother. The absence continues of his brother and his way to made fun of him. Bullying suffered at school.</p>
<p>When Sherlock ended to told Mary, she start to told about her nightmares. Pieces of the past of a woman with whom Sherlock has discovered that he has many things in common. Mary's nightmares are bigger than his and Sherlock has struggled to listen to them. He wished he had the strength to get up and leave, but, despite Mary making him eat regularly and with less threats and punishment, now, Sherlock is prey to constant dizziness and a nausea that often prevents him from completing the stories. Fortunately, Mary now understands the situation and does not insist. In recent days, then, a constant headache has never left Sherlock and tiredness has dominated him. He is therefore forced to stay there, to listen to Mary's terrible stories, during which she always holds his left hand tight with her, huge and calloused. It is as if Mary wanted to keep Sherlock there, still in that reality made up of sleepiness and brief vigil, so as to make him difficult to understand what the dream is and what the reality is.</p>
<p>"You have to react, Sherlock! You have been here for a long time now. Stop the morphine and react! ".</p>
<p>Sherlock, however, has no desire to follow John's advice. Especially because the last sad and distressing dreams have had the doctor as the protagonist. Him and what happened that Saturday night. Sherlock could not tell Mary about these dreams. He is still lucid enough to remember the violence with which he threatened his homosexuality. He therefor made John's name feminine, making him an ex who, needless to say, Mary hates with all of herself.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Deserves to die! &gt;&gt; she says, assuming the fierce expression of the evil Mary. Sherlock does not appreciate these exclamations, but below it, satisfies him to hear another person recognize that John's had not the best behavior he could have had.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Fortunately then you met Molly &gt;&gt; Mary told him at the end of these stories about dreams about John. Sherlock noticed a sadness on Mary's face so deep as to soften him.</p>
<p>"You're going crazy, my brother!".</p>
<p>Sherlock also ignores Mycroft's unfriendly findings. Yes, it's possible he's going crazy. That the constant presence of morphine in his body and the presence of a dangerous woman are acting in an unhealthy way on his brilliant brain to the point of making him go out of his mind.</p>
<p>"Oh, Sherlock, would that be so reprehensible?" Moriarty asked him, with that perennial laugh in his voice. "The best are crazy<a href="#_ftn1" id="_ftnref1" name="_ftnref1">[1]</a>, don't you know?" The consulting criminal, sneaking into Sherlock mind, laughed. Sherlock also joined in that meaningless laugh, surprise by Moriarty's presence.</p>
<p>"Why not?" Sherlock wonders now. "Why couldn't it be so?" People always said that he is crazy, after all. For his way of seeing the world, for the tones he uses in addressing people and for many other countless things.</p>
<p>"For the people, are 'crazy' those that are capable of doing what they do not have the courage to act", Moriarty points out now, reappearing in his thoughts. "You are capable to observe and for this reason you are 'mad'. You use drugs and that's why you're 'crazy'. You don't eat or sleep to keep up with your cases and that's why you're 'crazy'. You like men and that's why you're 'crazy'. You are denying the voices of your brother and Johnny-boy and for this you are 'mad'. "</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Yeah &gt;&gt; Sherlock nods. &lt;&lt; Mycroft constantly tells me what to do and continually discredits me, but he is not crazy. John fucks me and then tells me it was a mistake, but he is not crazy. No &gt;&gt; Sherlock whispers with a soft growl. &lt;&lt; The 'crazy' is me who wants to be free to express myself. I who fell in love with that idiot! &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>"Exactly" Moriarty applauds him, laughing. "This is how it works, my dear. They use you for their comfort and then throw you away. Like a broken toy. Like a filthy whore. "</p>
<p>Those words are a punch in the stomach, strong enough to take Sherlock's breath away. A whore. Yes, that's how he felt, even if he never had the courage to say it even to himself. A silly girl in love used as the cheapest of whores. And it was this love that made his price low.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Never that our John missed an opportunity or that he didn't waste time creating it. They all fall at his feet. What will be so attractive in him? It will be that in the small barrel there is good wine &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>The vulgar laughter of John's fellow drunken soldier, resounds in Sherlock's head. It was this man who had taken Sherlock and dragged him with them to that dirty pub. That man that had supply him with alcohol, that was on him, that embarrass him. John hadn't said anything to defense Sherlock. On the contrary, he had chuckled amused and pretended to be embarrassed by the words of his former comrades. It is also possible that everything was prepared. Yes, it is possible that he, the brilliant consulting detective, has fallen into a trap. That John, accustomed to seducing and abandoning, as his friends were keen to point out, had asked them to help him to go his flatmate to bed with him. John needed their help to then be able to stage the victim of the circumstances, perhaps blaming him for drinking and being, as usual, out of place, intrusive, 'crazy', in fact. A comfortable way to be able to keep his place in their flat and, perhaps, also by his side during the investigation. It is the only thing that interests john, however, of him. The possibility of living dangerously given to him by the cases Sherlock agrees to solve.</p>
<p>Who knows, perhaps 'three-continents Watson' that single case highlighted as wrong and never to be repeated would have made it happen again, to always blame it.</p>
<p>Yes, because does not take much to say that the consultant would have tried to seduce the doctor, not the other way around. Sherlock is the 'crazy' one, the freak; not John, the brave soldier. John, who would have guaranteed himself the dose of adrenaline and danger and the occasional fuck without even having to go looking for it around. And Sherlock, poor fool, would have begged his attentions, hoped for his avances and would have deluded himself that that could be love.</p>
<p>"Feelings are a chemical defect of the losing part," says Moriarty. “You shouldn't allow the heart to guide your head. I have always maintained that love was a dangerous disadvantage. "</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Me too, and I thank John Watson for giving me proof &gt;&gt; Sherlock replies, resolutely. Cold. Yes, he feels he is freezing. He just feel disgust. Not even anger. No, anger is hot, it ignites, it inflames. Disgust creates frost, like the cold sweats that follow the retching. The same disgust Sherlock had felt for himself in still hearing John's smell on his skin, in knowing he had John's body fluids inside him and that takes days before he leaves.</p>
<p>"You still have them on, in a way!" Moriarty laughs.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; No! This no! &gt;&gt; Sherlock growls, punching the blankets with a fist. &lt;&lt; I don't want him anymore! He no longer exists for me! &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>"Really?" James teases him. “I, on the other hand, believe Johnny-boy will remain on you, like a venereal disease. A herpes that remains latent under the skin to appear when you least expect it. "</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Stop it! &gt;&gt; shouts, beating his head.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Here I am! &gt;&gt; Mary enters the room cheerfully. Sherlock feels the blood rise to his head and looks up ready to scream at her. The cry, however, dies in his throat. That scary big woman holds the dusty custody of a violin in her hand. &lt;&lt; It belonged to my grandfather &gt;&gt; she says cheerfully. &lt;&lt; I don't know if it still good, it's been thrown there for years. Maybe you can do something about it &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>Mary hands that delicate battered object to him and Sherlock takes it with the same delicacy. He places the custody on his belly and snaps the hooks. A puff of dust rises as he slowly opens the lid, discovering a violin as beautiful and precious as his own.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Oh God, Mary ... it's beautiful &gt;&gt; he whispers moved. A knot tightens Sherlock's throat and his hands tremble as he caresses the live wood, the strings stretched. &lt;&lt; Can I, really? &gt;&gt; Sherlock asks, to the woman, who nods looking at him with big and surprised eyes.</p>
<p>With a little difficulty, Sherlock pulls the violin out of its housing and plucks its strings. As he imagined it is completely without tuning. Sherlock start tuning it by plucking the strings and turning the keys. When he is satisfied, he takes the bow and spends a few minutes passing the wax over his hair. The first long sound it produces by sliding it on the strings pleasantly touches the skin. Mary exclaims an 'oh' of surprise bringing her hands to her face and Sherlock smiles at her. Sherlock give a turn of the key to the string and once again pass the bow on the strings producing a lower sound. Mary claps her hands against each other, amused. She looks at him ecstatically while playing some chords.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; My grandfather always played 'Molly Malone'<a href="#_ftn2" id="_ftnref2" name="_ftnref2">[2]</a>, do you know her? &gt;&gt; she euphoric question.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Unfortunately no &gt;&gt;, Sherlock admits, seeing her smile cloud over, &lt;&lt; but if you sing it I'll be behind you &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Can you really do it? &gt;&gt; she asks in amazement. Sherlock nods and settles the violin under his chin and asks her with a nod to start.</p>
<p>Mary arranges the dress and stands up straight and with her hands reaches one on top of the other in front of her chest, like a diligent child who is preparing to recite the Christmas poem. With an unexpectedly clear, intoned and beautiful voice, she begins to sing about this Irish girl and Sherlock follows her, slowly recovering from his Mind Palace the chords of this ballad that he discovers to knows.</p>
<p>When the song ends and the violin is silent, they both find themselves surprised and inexplicably happy. In the silence that follows, the vibrations of the last note still reverberate against the walls, making that cold and hostile environment almost hospitable. When their eyes meet, a cheerful laugh arises spontaneously from both and wraps them, bringing their tormented souls closer.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; We were very good &gt;&gt; says the woman, who claps her hands happily chirps.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Definitely &gt;&gt; retorts Sherlock, to whom the cheeks from laughing so much hurt. &lt;&lt; Thank you, Mary. I needed it &gt;&gt; he says, turning his eyes in love with the violin.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Grandpa tried to teach me, but my fingers are too big &gt;&gt; she says embarrassed, hiding her hands behind her back. &lt;&lt; He was always laughing saying that it seemed that I using a saw rather than a bow. He had learned on his own. He could only play a few songs, but it sounded really good and I sang it. I think you know a lot &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Not really &gt;&gt; he admits. &lt;&lt; I know few folk songs. I know classic pieces and then I improvise according to the mood and thoughts I have &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Oh &gt;&gt; Mary whispers. &lt;&lt; You studied it well, then &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; No, I also learned alone &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; As grandfather! &gt;&gt; she exults. &lt;&lt; Play how you're feeling now &gt;&gt; asks him, sitting on the chair. Mary puts her elbows over her knees and places her square face on her hands, excited at the idea of hearing him play.</p>
<p>Sherlock brings the violin under his chin and closes his eyes. He stay for a few moments with the bow on the strings, listening. Then he hears a sound. Greve, prolonged, which spreads from the shoulder to the left arm and on the face. When the vibrations reach the chest, then he takes a deep breath making them expand from there to the totality of its being.</p>
<p>Let the bow slide on the strings, his fingers nimble on the handle, in search of other vibrations. Different images appear at the eyes of his mind and Sherlock sends them all to the violin, transforming them into sounds and vibrations. Sometimes sharp and fast, other short and slow. Deep. Evocative.</p>
<p>When the images end, the mind remains empty and the arm stops. Sherlock slowly opens his eyes and blinks several times to focus on where he is. The woman sitting next to him has a face wet with tears and red eyes.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; You are so sad &gt;&gt; she whispers, sniffling. He wipes her nose, by running over the sleeve of his felted sweater. Sherlock doesn't know what to argue. He no longer hears anything now. He has nothing in his head anymore and that's really strange.</p>
<p>'Music helps you not to hear the silence inside', Johann Sebastian Bach said. Something different happened to Sherlock, though. In silence he brought out the shouting of a thousand thoughts and the many emotions that swirled inside him. That silence, created by the snow that had frightened him so much, now that he has created it within himself thanks to the violin, leaves him ... so. He should be frightened or even just amazed and instead it is simply ... so.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; It is possible, yes &gt;&gt; Sherlock replies, stroking the instrument. He feels the woman's gaze on himself, but discovers that it no longer disturbs him as a few days before. The hands are numb and distant, as if they were no longer his. To be honest, Sherlock perceives this sensation throughout the body. He barely notices Mary's quick snap, sprung to his feet like a spring.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; When I'm sad I make a nice chocolate cake with lots of cream to cheer me up. I'd say you need one, how about, Ed? &gt;&gt; asks him and Sherlock struggles to keep up with her. He gives her an indifferent look</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Chocolate and cream? &gt;&gt; repeats evaluating the proposal. He doesn't care, he notes. &lt;&lt; Why not? &gt;&gt; he says sketching a smile, just to make her happy. That's how he sees her reacting to his words. With happyness, in fact.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Tomorrow I go to town to get everything I need. I had to go there anyway to stock up before the next storm. Do you feel like staying here just for a while? &gt;&gt; she asks him, suddenly becoming worried. In fact Sherlock made a scene just before perceiving himself only in silence.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; The thought of the cake will keep me company &gt;&gt; Sherlock realizes to say, feeling so distant to those words, as if they were pronounced by someone else. Someone extremely kind and condescending.</p>
<p>“You said you would never adapt to survive. That you wouldn't have been like me ”Mycroft's voice. Far. Weak as a whisper. However, Sherlock does not believe he is adapting to anything. It's just that he no longer hears anything.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p><a href="#_ftnref1" id="_ftn1" name="_ftn1">[1]</a> Quote from Carroll's 'Alice in Wonderland'</p>
<p><a href="#_ftnref2" id="_ftn2" name="_ftn2">[2]</a> Dublin hymn of the 18th century</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. November 24th</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>November 24th</p>
<p> </p>
<p>&lt;&lt; No, Jason. I haven't seen this man. You know how small the country is and how much people murmur here. A foreigner ... this foreigner would have caught the eye and I would have known, in one way or another &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Nobody, however, told you about a foreigner man visiting here &gt;&gt; John asks to the owner of the shop of yet another village, that he has diligently noted in his notebook.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; No, Captain. Neither this man nor anyone else. As I said, the town is small and the voices are running fast &gt;&gt; the man replies, shrugging.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Thanks anyway, Leslie. I hang one of these on the bulletin board, if you don't mind &gt;&gt; says the inspector, showing him one of the posters they have prepared in which the photo of Sherlock with the deerstalker on his head stands out above the word 'disappeared'.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Of course &gt;&gt; the old man says, going to the cash desk, where a huge woman is about to deposit the contents of the overflowing basket on the counter.</p>
<p>John can't take his eyes off her. This woman have a face so strange and a body so massive as to arouse a curiosity without any education, John realizes it, but difficult to drive back down.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Yes, she certainly doesn't go unnoticed &gt;&gt; chuckles Hataway, who has noticed the effect that woman has unleashed on John.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; She could not, even she want it &gt;&gt; John mumbles, who still watches at the woman while she jovial talk with the old man.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; She is Abbott's daughter &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; My colleague that passed away? &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Yes. Liland had four boys and... her. Unfortunately, she was big and there were complications during the birth that made her a little... late. Could be that she scary, but she is a shy and reserved creature &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>John mechanically nods to the inspector's words. The hands of this woman, huge and full of calluses, totally capture him. She leaves the shop just as Hataway scrambles the last pin on the fourth corner of the poster.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Oh… good morning Mr inspector &gt;&gt; she mumbles, keeping her eyes down. It makes an impression to see so much submissiveness in a creature so large as to give the idea of being able to land men of his and Hataway's size with one shot.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Good morning, Mary. You took advantage of the truce to go shopping, I see &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Oh ... yes. Animals need food and I need something too &gt;&gt; she replies, blushing conspicuously. Mary steals glances at John, who is struggling to sketch a polite smile.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Are you all right up there? Have you had any storm damage? &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Nobody, fortunately, Mr inspector &gt;&gt; she says, smiling with embarrassment. &lt;&lt; Mr Inspector, you can also spare the round of patrols up to us &gt;&gt; she adds, tucking her scarf on her cheeks, reddened by the cold.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Thank you, dear. I will have more time for the research that I am carrying out with Captain Watson. He is a doctor, you know? As was your father &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>John holds out his hand to the woman, politely. An unpleasant sensation envelops him when John sees his hand, already small in itself, disappear swallowed up by the huge and massive hand of Mary.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Why is he captain if he is a doctor? &gt;&gt; she asks this curious question with a little girl's voice. John exchanges a quick glance with the inspector.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Because he was a doctor in the army &gt;&gt; Hataway replies in John place, with the sweetness that a father would use for a daughter.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Oh &gt;&gt; she exclaims in amazement. Mary squeezes her hands against each other and the leather gloves she wears rub against each other, creating an unpleasant crunch. John notices how tight they are for her.</p>
<p>Of course it must however be difficult for her to find gloves that are not small, even among men's sizes.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; It must have snowed a lot if you call here the army, Mr Inspector &gt;&gt; she observes, continuing to stealthily look at John. These short and elusive glances annoy the doctor, which is rather strange, given his renowned patience with the weakest people.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Oh, no, Mary &gt;&gt; Hataway chuckles, apologizing to John with his eyes. &lt;&lt; Captain Watson is no longer on duty and is here looking for a friend of his who is disappeared &gt;&gt; he says, pointing to the poster.</p>
<p>The woman turns and stares at the photograph for a long time, before exploding with a loud laugh.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; What a funny hat! &gt;&gt; exclaims, trilling like a child.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; He can't stand it &gt;&gt; retorts John, who feels the annoyance getting more and more.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Why are he wearing it, if he can't stand it? &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Because the first time a journalist photographed him he wore it to try to disguise himself. He thinks that a  consultanting detective should not have a public image. It would compromise his job &gt;&gt; John explains to her, aware that she will not understand anything of what he said. In fact, the woman stares at him in astonishment. The doctor, however, realizes that he does not feel any remorse for using words that are too complicated for this woman with evident mental retardation.</p>
<p>"Jesus, they make her go around alone" he sighs. John's eyes are increasingly attracted by the features partially covered by the blue scarf and by the enormous hands forced into leather gloves.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Are he a policeman? &gt;&gt; asks the woman, coming out of her silence. She approaches at the photo and looks it again.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Not really &gt;&gt; answers John, who just wants to get out of there, where he are wasting too much time. Mary groped to read Sherlock's name, making the pronunciation blatantly wrong, which. John can't stand her any longer.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Sherlock. His name is Sherlock Holmes &gt;&gt; he punctuates. Greg's hand rest on John's left shoulder and squeeze it. Greg's  hand causes to John a twinge of pain, sinking his fingers right into the old war wound, but manages to distract him from the desire to fill the woman with insults. The fact that she starts laughing again like a little girl, doesn't help his good friend's attempts at all.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Your friend has a funny name &gt;&gt;</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Yes, he has a funny name and wears a funny hat and if you also lived with him you would notice many other damn funny things &gt;&gt; John growls and this time the inspector also feels he has to put a hand on his arm.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Do you and your friend live together? &gt;&gt; Mary asks him, suddenly changing expression. A shiver runs down John's back, in front of those serious eyes and tense face. There is no longer any trace of the shy girl in this woman now, and what has taken her place calm down the doctor.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; We are flatmates &gt;&gt; he replies and fragments of that Saturday night come back overbearing to him.</p>
<p>"What should I do? Do I say to this stupid woman: 'Yes, we are lovers?' She wouldn't understand me! " he think, though there is nothing  stupid now in this woman, who has come even closer to the photo she observes attentively.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; You know, Mary, rents in London are expensive. It happens that people who do not know each other find themselves sharing an apartment to split the rent &gt;&gt; intervenes Hataway, who does not seem surprised at all by the woman's attitude. Mary, however, seems not to have heard it. To be honest, she give the idea of having become a huge, gigantic statue. John glances at the inspector who notes of the strangeness of that stillness.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Mary, dear, are you all right? &gt;&gt; he asks her, just leaning towards her. Suddenly the woman comes to life, moving with a speed that is not expected of a person of her size.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; I have to go. I have to feed the animals. It will be dark soon &gt;&gt; she mumbles, moving away from them without looking at them. She walk away with heavy stride and shipped to a van. Mary opens the side door, throwing in the wrong way what she purchased. She then climbs to the driver's side and starts up.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Poor thing &gt;&gt; sighs the inspector.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; You won't tell me that she live alone? &gt;&gt; Greg asks him, still turned in the direction towards which the van has headed.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Basically yes. The brothers are constantly on the road and since the father died they have become accustomed to spending the winter elsewhere. They leave her to look after the bedridden mother. A stroke struck her only a few months after her husband died. Mary keeps going as best she can and I will tell you, Lestrade, that she is not doing so badly. She has the strength of four men and, certainly, sometimes she remains motionless in a disturbing way and then suddenly changes her mood, but it is not a danger neither for others nor for herself &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; You says so &gt;&gt; John mutters, that continues to have before his eyes that square face partially covered by the blue scarf and those huge, strong, powerful hands.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>***</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The door slams and heavy steps, fast and that do not promise anything good attack the steps. Sherlock puts the violin in the case, closes it and slides it to the ground.</p>
<p>"I don't see why you too must suffer the consequences," Sherlock thinks, before returning to stare at the door. "I knew it would happen," he sighs, running a hand through his hair. The regrowth is now more than visible and in the village Mary will surely have heard of the missing Londoner. Paddington and Hataway have not heard from him for days and, now that communications have been reconstituted, they will have been able to talk to each other and realize that he never came to the police station. Sherlock should have prevented Mary from going into town to shop, but what would he be for? Only to delay the inevitable.</p>
<p>"Might as well end it now."</p>
<p>Sherlock is not even startled to see evil-Mary entering his room like a fury. Her eyes out of their sockets. She snorts like a bull ready to charge. Mary clutching  the strap of Sherlock's trolley in one of hers huge hands. She  had told him that she didn't recovered it.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; I lost my good boots to save you and you, cursed, lied to me! &gt;&gt; she says throwing the trolley on him. Sherlock promptly grabs it, miraculously saving his leg from suffering the consequences.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; You too lied to me &gt;&gt; he replies seraphic. &lt;&lt; You said you hadn't been able to retrieve my suitcase &gt;&gt; he says, still pointing at it in his hands.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; What does this have to do with it? &gt;&gt; she growls, taking a step forward.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; So is this how it works? If I lie, it is not good and if you do it, is it lawful? &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; I saved your life! &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; And I am grateful to you! &gt;&gt; retorts in tone, the gaze fixed on her. &lt;&lt; Yes, I'm a  consulting detective. My name is Sherlock Holmes and I'm investigating a murder case on behalf of Paddington, the owner of the Ski Club. When I woke up I didn't know where I was. I didn't know who you was or why did you keep me here. I lied to protect myself, Mary. And you? Why did you do lie me? &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>The woman remains motionless, firm in the formulation of the complicated thought that his question must have structured in her. Sherlock has no weapon kept in the trolley, but, although it may be a small thing against her fury, he can still try to use it as a shield to protect himself from her fists.</p>
<p>“What would it do? This woman could go on beating me for hours. She has a lot of free time” Sherlock sighs apathetically, in front of the situation in which he finds himself. With a grunt Mary comes to himself and stamps her feet firmly on the ground.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; I saw your flatmate &gt;&gt; she says, pronouncing that last word with disgust. &lt;&lt; He looks for you, together with the inspector. He wants to bring his lover home and I don't want a perverted pig under my roof! The devil in the house, that's what I brought, damn me! &gt;&gt; she shouts, throwing herself over Sherlock, her fists closed like two hammers that she drops fiercely on his poor limbs.</p>
<p>Sherlock feels no pain. He tries to defend himself as he can, using the trolley as a shield, but very little coverage guarantees that small weapon. Mary is on another planet. Release her fury, that's what she does, and Sherlock just has to resist.</p>
<p>"Fortunately I'm totally made of morphine!" he thinks, barely feeling a dull discomfort in his legs. It is as if he were watching a movie scene, one of those in 3D that lead you to experience the situation firsthand. Sherlock looks at his body with detachment, sees those hands drop on him, on the trolley that presses against his chest, but he feels nothing. The audio is an inarticulate mass of grunts, moans and screams that mingle with the rhythmic thuds of the fists.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Punishment! &gt;&gt; shouts Mary, finally saying a word of complete meaning. She grabs Sherlock by the broken leg and drags him off the bed. Sherlock feels a dull but bearable pain and just grumbles when he falls off the bed. The drips to which he is attached detach from the support and and crawl on the ground behind him. The woman mumbles meaningless words, as she drags him down a flight of stairs. Sherlock holds the trolley close to his chest and tries to put strength on his abs so as not to collapse with a dead weight on every single step. From the stairs Sherlock is then dragged onto the dusty carpet that covers the entire corridor. He hardly feels the tingling it causes on his bare buttocks and surely scratched by rubbing with the ground.</p>
<p>Finally Mary stops. She turns to him and a terrible smile is drawn on her lips.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; You did it big this time. Big big, oooooh yes! &gt;&gt; she exclaims and opens the door of the storage room. Mary grabs Sherlock by the broken leg and throws him inside. &lt;&lt; You will stay here to reflect on your sins, ungrateful without god &gt;&gt; she says, kicking the drip that Sherlock promptly grabs and draws to himself a moment before she closes the door, leaving him in the narrow, dusty and dark space of that small room .</p>
<p>Mary hits the door with those hammers that are hers hand. She punches, grunting and laughing together. She suddenly stops. She stops hitting the door and making any other noise. After a long silence, Sherlock hears her go away, go downstairs and exit the front door.</p>
<p>"It seems that things have gone sooo bad for you, my dear consultant," Moriarty chuckles in Sherlock's head. He ignore him. Sherlock look for a more comfortable position and a handle to hang the IV bags.</p>
<p>“They will end sooner or later. What will you do when it happens? ".</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; I'll think about it when it happen &gt;&gt; he retorts seraphic.</p>
<p>"You will be hungry and thirsty."</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; I can check both &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>"And can you also control pee and poo?" Moriarty asks him, amuses. "You will have to do here on the floor and your benefactress will get pissed and freak out and then ...".</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; She will kill me, I know &gt;&gt; he says, bored.</p>
<p>Everything is silent for a long moment. It seems that his words silenced the Napoleon of crime.</p>
<p>"Johnny-boy is looking for you" he retries these, resuming the game from a completely different front.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; I don't care &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>Silent again. There seems that Moriarty has been hurt by Sherlock's indifference.</p>
<p>"What would it be to say 'you don't care'?" he asks, in fact, breaking his own silence.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Sense of guilt. Sense of duty. Another adrenaline-charged mission. This is John doing. It is not me who he seeks. Himself, perhaps, but now I don't care anymore &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>"Oh" exclaims Moriarty dejected. "It wasn't exactly how I intended to burn your heart."</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Sorry, Mary Abbott arrived first &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>"Already. She froze your heart. "</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Even the ice burns. More than fire. And it's more sneaky and do you know why? &gt;&gt; asks Sherlock. He almost seems to see Moriarty sitting in a corner in the darkness of this hole. &lt;&lt; Because ice before killing someone warms it up. A pleasant warmth that comes from a painful tingling. It is as if he wanted to rock before he killed. That's how I always imagined death, James. A pungent pain followed by a sweet heat, satisfying like an orgasm &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>"It's a shame, though, that it ends up like this, don't you think?" he asks and Sherlock imagines the expression of a beaten puppy on his face.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; So... killed by you or by a needle in my arm... what changes? Didn't you say that? Somehow you have to die &gt;&gt;.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. November 25th</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>November 25th</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Sherlock gets up from the sofa laughing, with the laptop in his hand. He staggers on shaky legs and John is already afraid of seeing him collapse on the ground, destroy the computer and maybe even break himself something .</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Come here, what do you do? &gt;&gt; John laughs, getting up in turn. He grabs Sherlock by the hips and brings him back to the sofa. The consultant shouts and laughs trying to free himself.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; You're going to drop the laptot, Sherlock! &gt;&gt; John asks him, seriously worried.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; It won't be a serious loss. No more blogs or porn films to cheer you up the evening &gt;&gt; Sherlock mocks him, trying to get up back.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; If you know their existence it means that you have looked at them too &gt;&gt; John says, finally tearing the laptop from his hands. Sherlock tries to get it back, but John promptly locks his hands and back against the seat of the sofa.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; It was enough for me to read the titles of the chronology and the source. I don't look at that stuff! &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Oh, goody-goody! &gt;&gt; John teases him, by winning his escape attempts.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; I don't understand the meaning of a porno movie. What do you do with it if you can only watch them? I mean, finding yourself in a similar situation is a thing, but to watch ... what's the use? &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Oh my God, you won't be serious, I hope? &gt;&gt; John chuckles, incredulously.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; I'm very serious &gt;&gt; Sherlock says, with a hiccup. Clear sign of drunkenness, if it really need to find the signs. John laughs loudly and Sherlock pouts offended. &lt;&lt; Are you laughing at me, John Watson? &gt;&gt; he asks. Sherlock raise his pelvis, levering on the wrists locked by the soldier and tries to bring his knees back to his chest in order to kick John away. With all-natural movements the doctor insinuates himself between those long legs and locking Sherlock down.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; You started, Sherlock, remember? &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; It is not true &gt;&gt; he replies, by moving his pelvis in an attempt to free himself. The rubbing it produces is pleasant and with satisfaction John sees Sherlock's cheeks turn red. &lt;&lt; Do you want to leave my hands free or not? &gt;&gt; asks him, embarrassed.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Just to do this &gt;&gt; John replies. He quickly leaves Sherlock's wrists and starts to run with his fingers along the consultant's hips and abdomen in search of a sensitive point.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; You're just wasting time, I'm not tickled &gt;&gt; he says, trying to stop his hands. With very little conviction, actually.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Really? &gt;&gt; asks John. He grabs Sherlock by the hips, bringing his knees under Sherlock's buttocks, just to create the right space to grip his back (and have Sherlock's pelvis even closer to his, of course). It is enough for John to creep just under Sherlock's shirt, shelled out of his pants, to hear him explode in a broadside of laughter graceless. Sherlock is light years away from his usual aplomb as a perfect man, all head and emotionless.</p>
<p>Sherlock's back arches. His legs tighten around John's hips. His hands clap on John's shoulders. His nails harpoon John's back and his voice begs him to stop. John does only when Sherlock's hands  grab his wrists. They both look panting. Their faces are red with laughter and the fake fight that just happened.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Do you really want me to stop? &gt;&gt; John asks him, with a tension in his voice equal only to that which he feels in the pants of both.</p>
<p>Sherlock stops breathing. He bites the lip, a gesture that makes the heart and the flap of the soldier's trousers flicker. Without saying anything, remaining in apnea, Sherlock's right hand long fingers  approaches to touch John's lips.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Jawn &gt;&gt; he whispers, taking breath. The hiss of air entering him draws John to those lips. There are only them now. The lips that kisses, that bites and that smiles at him. Sherlock's fingernails that sink into the flesh. Sherlock's tapered fingers that ruffle his hair. Sherlock's long legs that squeeze his hips and John's desire to undress him and make him his. John want to do it right away, before that magic fades and they wake up from the dream.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; All this is beautiful, Jawn &gt;&gt; Sherlock whispers in his ear, while John bites his neck.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Yes, it is beautiful &gt;&gt; John retorts, tearing Sherlock's shirt off without any restraint, which makes his flatmate laugh with taste, while the buttons clink falling on the floor.</p>
<p>John should stop. He knows he should because his friend is drunk. In more sober circumstances they would both sit in front of a movie or each in their own beds. But John doesn't stop. He doesn't want to stop!</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; I want you. God, as I want you &gt;&gt; he says, letting his hands slip in Sherlock's pants to grab his firm buttocks.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; So take me &gt;&gt; he whispers, abandoning himself totally to his mercy.</p>
<p>John should stop. Yes, he really should, because Sherlock is too beautiful, his eyes too languid and his smile too sweet. Instead he pounces again on those red lips of the kisses and bites he gave him. Sherlock's fingers draw complex lines on John's back, each capable of giving him the chills. John feels Sherlock's fingers  getting heavier, bigger. He moves on his neck and Sherlock's laughter are like that of a little girl.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; It is really a funny name &gt;&gt; John reopening his eyes and finds himself close to that terrible big woman met at the shop. &lt;&lt; Where is your flatmate now? &gt;&gt; she asks him. The woman prevents him from escaping, by holding him in the strong grip of her legs.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; He was here ... he was here until a moment ago &gt;&gt; John exclaims horrified, trying to free himself from the her grasp. The more he tries, the more, however, he falls on her, making her laugh, laugh louder and louder.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Go ahead with me, I am not offended &gt;&gt; says that woman in a mischievous tone. She places a big hand on the back of John's neck and pushes him towards her, pressing her lips against him.</p>
<p>John wakes up screaming. He falls from the chair on which he had dozed off, finding himself on the floor.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Hey, John, what's wrong with you? &gt;&gt; Greg asks him, who immediately rushes to help him get up back.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; A nightmare. A damned nightmare &gt;&gt; John mumbles, rubbing his lips on which he still feels the pressure of those of the creepy woman.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; You should go and lie down on a real bed &gt;&gt; his friend says, tapping his shoulder.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; No, we don't talk about it. I dared too much. Is there any news? &gt;&gt; asks him, turning the conversation elsewhere.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Mycroft is coming &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; What? &gt;&gt; asks in amazement. &lt;&lt; Why did you call him? &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; I didn't call him, John, far from me to do this. I think he did two plus two and he found that it still does four &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; I don't want him here &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; You can't stop him. He is his brother, as well as the most powerful man in England &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; I don't care about his power! &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; I know, and I admire you for this. Two days have passed since we found the car and, despite the research, we have not come to the head of anything &gt;&gt; sighs Greg, passing his hand over his tired face.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Do you think having the British government here can make any difference? Is it capable of melting the snow on command? &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; I do not know, John, but for the point where we are I am willing to accept any type of suggestion &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>Greg's gaze leaves no possibility for replies and even John must agree that the situation is so desperate that any form of help is needed. He can always be proud of himself as he was right to be alarmed.</p>
<p>"A maild consolation" John sighs, bringing his hands to his face.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Greg, listen ... Mycroft doesn't know. That is, surely he knows, but I have not confirmed what I said to you &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; And I will take good care to keep it for me &gt;&gt; concludes the detective, by indicating that he has no intention of returning to the topic.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Thanks &gt;&gt; John whispers, placing a hand on Greg's shoulder. He feels him twitching under his fingers. Greg is far away. John can touch him and speak to him, but he is far away. They are not sharing the stress and pain of that bad situation. The detective has decided to keep his concerns to himself. That secret that John confided to him was a low blow for Greg.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; I'm really sorry &gt;&gt; mutters to himself and maybe Greg hears it too, but decides not to give him rope.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Hey, folks, a man from the government has arrived who says he's the brother of your missing friend &gt;&gt; says Hataway, breaking into the dining room of the small police station. Beyond the frosted glass, John glimpses the unmistakable silouette of Mycroft Holmes. John takes a deep breath and with Greg follows the inspector.</p>
<p>Mycroft wears a brown coat that goes down to cover him up to the ankles. The hands, protected by leather gloves of the same color, are resting on the inevitable umbrella. A burgundy scarf protects his throat from the cold and loosens it just when he sees them coming.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Doctor Watson I have to make my apologies &gt;&gt; he begins awkwardly. &lt;&lt; Apparently you was right about my brother &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Apparently &gt;&gt;  retorts John.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; There is no news? &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; None &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>Mycroft nods and loosens the scarf a little more, accompanying the gesture with two dry coughs.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; There is news instead, gentlemen &gt;&gt;, Hataway bursts in, &lt;&lt; but it is not good &gt;&gt; he adds, breaking their hopes. &lt;&lt; A new storm is about to hit these mountains. It will begin tonight and only God knows when it will fade. I ... I don't want to be a hoodoo, but I'm afraid there is nothing for your friend to do. If someone had found and hosted him at this point he would have told us. What is the point of keeping an infirm and perhaps dying stranger at home? &gt;&gt; asks the inspector.</p>
<p>"What good is it, already?" thinks John.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Even the case on which Mr Holmes had been called to investigate is frozen, like everything around here. Gentlemen, I advise you to return to London. Here you can not do anything except look at your hands in front of the fire for the next few days &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; No, I'm not leaving! &gt;&gt; John blurts out resolutely.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Well ... there is always a place in the dormitory for you, Captain. It is not a problem for me if you wants to stay. And you too, Mr. Holmes &gt;&gt; the detective says, turning to Mycroft. &lt;&lt; I have a communication from Scotland Yard here for you, colleague &gt;&gt; he adds, handing Greg a circular. He takes it, reads it and snorts, rolling his eyes.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Instead, I have to go back, damn it! &gt;&gt; Greg snort, by returning the communication to the colleague. &lt;&lt; That damned case. Apparently something new has happened and they need me on the field. Jesus, Mycroft, you can't imagine how much I miss your brother's help right now &gt;&gt; he says, bringing a cigarette to his lips. He starts to light it, but the lighter does not cooperate and before a nervous breakdown catches him, Mycroft intervenes to help him. He triggers the fuse of his golden lighter right under Greg's nose.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Thanks &gt;&gt; the detective tells him after lighting the cigarette.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Go back to London, Lestrade. Take back your notes and focus your attention on that clue that has given you so many thoughts. There it is the key to everything. And remember that solving a problem is achieved by always choosing the simplest solution &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; The simplest solution &gt;&gt; Greg nods, already dropped in his role.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; I'll take you to the train station, colleague &gt;&gt; Hataway intrudes, giving one of his men orders to prepare the car.</p>
<p>John would like to tell Greg many things, but he just lowers his head, by imitating the greeting he gives him before leaving the police station.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Apparently it's just you and me, doctor &gt;&gt; says Mycroft, taking a cigarette from a package hidden in the inside pocket of his coat.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; I did not know you smoke &gt;&gt; John says, sincerely amazed at the thing.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Bad habit, in fact &gt;&gt; Mycroft replies, observing the glowing embers of the cigarette.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; You also have some human weakness, then &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>Mycroft merely shows that drawn smile of his and takes a long drag on the cigarette.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; So, doctor, do you think that we will ever have the pleasure of seeing safely again that fool I have for brother? &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; I ... I know that goes against all logic, which you will not fail to get me noticed, but I ... I know he is still alive &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; I find it a good starting point to structure an investigation &gt;&gt; Mycroft smiles and seems also relieved of John's words. &lt;&lt; You know Sherlock's methods. I think it's time to use them to solve the case, John &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Are you telling me that ... that I have to be the one investigating? &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Precisely &gt;&gt; Mycroft nods seriously, taking another drag on the cigarette.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Mycroft &gt;&gt;, John sighs, bringing his hand to his eyes. &lt;&lt; I don't have his ... your intelligence. I am a common idiot, how can I deal with this situation? &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; You know Sherlock's methods. For a year you have seen him at work, you have help him to reason, you have follow him in his deductions &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; You are smarter than Sherlock, even he admitted it. Don't say, however, that I told you, please &gt;&gt; John adds, biting his tongue in front of what had to remain a confidence. Mycroft laughs amused at a time when laughter is totally out of place. Just like his brother. &lt;&lt; Do you see? You are the same! &gt;&gt; John exclaims, rolling his eyes. &lt;&lt; I can assist you as I did to him &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; No, John. I can be smarter than Sherlock, it's true, but I have no method. He gives importance to things that elude me because I don't consider them. Most of the time because I find them superfluous &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Would they be? &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; The emotions. Human relationships. The involvement &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>John feels called into question and looks away from the perpetually judgmental Mycroft's eyes.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Listen, Mycroft, what happened between me and your brother ... &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; It is not of my interest &gt;&gt; he interrupts him. &lt;&lt; It wasn't when I tried to hire you as a spy inside Baker Street and it's not now. The only thing I hope is that you will have the opportunity to clarify yourself and to do it we must first find him, John &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Yeah &gt;&gt; he sighs, passing his hand over his tired face. &lt;&lt; Well, then we just have to start the game, as Sherlock always says &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>***</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The wind blows strong here in the pit. It is freezing and inclement. Scratches the skin mercilessly, like a beast. It then laughs at its misdeeds, wrapping itself in its coils, before moving on. Sherlock trembles from head to toe. He lies among the rotting corpses covered with frost, which whitens them making them even more bleak.</p>
<p>"I'm not dead yet," Sherlock thinks, as he tries to rub the frozen and bare limbs. A painful grasp harps his stomach, causing him to vomit at almost regular intervals.</p>
<p>"Not yet, but you're almost there" Moriarty chuckles, standing on the edge of the pit. His hands in his pockets, his dark glasses covering his empty eyes and his mocking smile on his lips. "It's nice to die, Sherlock" Moriarty says, jumping into the pit. "Nobody comes to bother you," he adds shrugging. "Look at all these corpses," he says, pointing with his finger at the corpses around them. “They have remained quiet and safe here for sooooo much years. Then, yes, people came to disturb them, in fact, but their situation is also unusual, don't you think? ”.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Definitely unusual, yes &gt;&gt; Sherlock admits, trembling more and more. Another retch surprises him and what he sputs is now a stinking white foam.</p>
<p>"Oh, look at yourself!" James exclaims in disgust. “I admit that if at our first meeting I found you reduced in this way, I would have thought twice before getting involved you in our nice game. Come on, amaze me,  consulting detective. Why are these carcasses found here? ”.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; This is the landfill of a serial killer &gt;&gt; Sherlock replies, recovering with difficulty from the last retch.</p>
<p>"Really? Can you tell me something I don't know? How, for example, who is the serial killer? "</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Not someone encouraged by you, this time &gt;&gt; Sherlock mumbles, trying to stand up. The leg, however, does not hold him and he falls into Moriarty's arms.</p>
<p>"Oh, please, not here in front of everyone!" James exclaims, looking around pretending embarrassment. He pulls him away badly and Sherlock falls down to sit. His leg, which is slowly waking up, sends him a stab of pain so strong that it makes him scream. "Oh come on, how much scene for a little pain."</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; You never feel pain, don't you? &gt;&gt; Sherlock asks, between his teeth.</p>
<p>"Oh, Sherlock. The pain is always felt, but it mustn't scare you” Moriarty chuckles. "Going back to more serious things," he says, leaping over one of the corpses. "Yup. I confirm that this is not the work of any of my clients. So, whose are we admiring the deeds? ".</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; I ... I have no idea &gt;&gt; Sherlock admits won by the tremors. &lt;&lt; I'm not foolproof. Some cases I just can't solve them &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>Moriarty sighs, putting on one of his puppy-like expressions. He kneels in front of Sherlock and theatrically caresses his pained face.</p>
<p>"Not even when you have the solution under your nose?" he asks him in a whisper  a palm from his face. Sherlock looks at him, confused, and Moriarty rolls his eyes, annoyed by his slowness. “Do you remember what you said to little Molly Hooper yourself? Come on! She said that these corpses had nothing in common, while you pointed out that their are all ... ".</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Nudes &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>"Bingo!" James exclaims amused. "And, look a little bit, now you are naked too. You also have this thing in common with them, ”he says, invading Sherlock's personal space. "Was it Johnny-boy who undressed you, Sherlock? He ripped your shirt off you, blew the buttons all over the place, that naughty boy, and you laughed. Oh, if you laughed. I still have your laugh in my head. You were excited. So excited that your penis hurt you the way he pressed against the flap of his pants, admit it" Moriarty says with a mischievous wink. "When John pulled your pants off you, it was a sweet relief, as well as the beginning of the best part."</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Shut up! It wasn't him! If I'm naked now, I don't owe it to him &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>"No? So who did it, Sherlock? Aren't you going to tell me that you are also the type of person who, after the first time, starts to give it away without any mercy? Take a look at how quickly you can go from to be a virgin to to be a whore. "</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; I'm not a whore! &gt;&gt; Sherlock exclaims. He calls all his few strength to himself to take a leap towards him. Sherlock squeezes his hands around Moriarty's neck, intending to silence him once and for all.</p>
<p>"No? Yet I think you've felt just like that in recent times" Moriarty replies, easily freeing himself from Sherlock's grasp. “How many stupid distractions from chance! How many wasted energies that take you away from the obvious solution you have under your nose! " he says, shaking his head disappointed by him. "Get rid of what happened with that silly homunculus and go back to being the infallible consultant I met," Moriarty shouts in his crazy way.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Edward ... hey, Eddy, what's going on? &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>The voice of Mary- child calls Sherlock from his Mind Palace. He has no idea how much time has passed since the  evil-Mary locked him in there. He only knows that the morphine is over and that the abstinence crisis has started and is currently at its peak. He finds himself surrounded by his own vomit. He lying in the urine and stools that he has not even realized he has evacuated. Chills and cold sweats run from Sherlock's head to toe. The leg, oh God, the leg hurts Sherlock as if spiteful goblins were having fun prodding it continuously with red-hot pins.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Mary! Oh, baby Mary, please help me &gt;&gt; Sherlock sobbing, placing a hand on the door.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; I can't &gt;&gt; she replies. Mary is crying in silence. Sherlock can imagine her red and swollen eyes. &lt;&lt; Why did you lie to me, Edward? &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p> &lt;&lt; I was afraid, Mary. I didn't know where I was and then I came here under cover for work &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; You are not a ski teacher. You are a policeman, one of those who takes people away &gt;&gt; she accuses him angry.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; I'm not a cop, Mary. I am only a person who can observe and deduce. It is my sentence &gt;&gt; Sherlock notes, now leaning against the door, that in these long hours of pain has often been struck by the big hands of the evil-mary.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; I thought you were my friend &gt;&gt; whispers the little girl, crying.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; I am your friend! We are friends, Mary. The things I told you, my nightmares, my stories that went wrong, are true, Mary &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; But you are not a ski instructor and your name is not Edward &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; No. I am a consulting detective, the only one who exists in the world and my name is Sherlock Holmes &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; What a funny name &gt;&gt; she chuckles.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; It was my mother who gave it to me. It means 'man with beautiful hair' &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; They are black, not blond. You also lied about those &gt;&gt; she scolds him.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Yes, it's true, I lied and I wish I hadn't. I wish I had never accepted this damned case &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; But in this way we would never have met &gt;&gt; she notes sad.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Yes… it's true &gt;&gt; Sherlock says in tears, continuing to curse Paddington's phone call.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; We would not have sung 'Molly Malone' together &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Yes... we wouldn't have done it &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>They both laugh until one cramp in the stomach louder than the others tears Sherlock out.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; What happens? &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; I'm sick, Mary &gt;&gt; Sherlock mutters with a whisper. He perceives the hesitation of the woman beyond the door. The lock turn and the door open slowly. The light hurts Sherlock's eyes though it is faint.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Oh my God, what have you done, Eddy? &gt;&gt; exclaims Mary-child, wrinkling her nose in front of the smell that hit her in the face.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; I'm sorry, Mary. I could not do otherwise. I am not well. Forgive me &gt;&gt; Sherlock realizes that he is crying without any restraint. He reaches out to touch the huge slippers Mary wear, in a desperate plea for help.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; We must hurry! &gt;&gt; exclaims the woman with a worrying urgency in her voice. Mary take Sherlock in her arms. Sherlock's stomach making a turn and he must play attention to not vomiting on her. Mary seems to suffer no effort in carrying him down the corridor. She puts him on a cold and smooth surface and only when she activates the shower does Sherlock realize that he is in a bathtub. The water takes a while to warm up and when it finally becomes hot it is so pleasant that he can relax. Sherlock gives himself up completely to the water and, with a trembling hand, he grabs a wrinkled soap without any perfume and uses it to wash himself. The broken leg hangs out of the tub and continues to pulsate waves painful and angry. Sherlock try to isolate this pain in a room of his Mind Palace and thanks to this hot shower he manages a little.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Quick, get out of there &gt;&gt; Mary intimates him, by tearing him from the warm embrace of the water. She throws a rough towel on him and with that Sherlock dabs the body until it is dry. Mary looks at him in passing, embarrassed. She stay at the door jamb, giving him her back.</p>
<p>"You could hit her in the head with something and get rid of her," James suggests him.</p>
<p>"No" Sherlock replies. Red in the face, Mary torments a nail with her teeth, while insisting on not looking at him.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; You can not stay here &gt;&gt; she says, pulling up with his nose, a sign of imminent crying.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; I can't go anywhere in these conditions, Mary &gt;&gt; he points out, clutching his wet bathrobe.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; I do not know how much longer I can keep her calm, Ed. You messed up this time &gt;&gt; Mary says, turning sadly towards him.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Can't you take me to Hataway? We will tell him that you found me while I was wandering the street. I won't get you in trouble &gt;&gt; Sherlock says, putting his joint hands under his chin. Mary seems to think it over for a few moments. Then she shakes her head, vigorously.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; It is too dangerous &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; So what can we do? &gt;&gt; Sherlock asks regretfully and a cramp claws his stomach. He vomit in the toilet just in time. He still spit that foamy, smelly substance.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; You're really sick, poor dear &gt;&gt; Mary says, approaching him. She caresses Sherlock's wet head, almost completely returned to its original color. Sherlock indulges in those rough, ungainly caresses, but capable of cheering him up, like the hot water of the strange shower just taken. He finds himself tight in her warm embrace, his face resting on her prosperous chest. Sherlock surrounds her with his arms and a distant memory opens in his mind.</p>
<p>Sherlock was eight years old. He takes the run-up, determined to make a nice jump. Mycroft is so kidnapped by his book that he realizes what is happen at the last moment, or so he lets him believe. A funny expression of amazement and resignation in front of Sherlock's childish idiocy is drawn on Mycroft's face. Sherlock jump and his thin, small body impacts against Mycroft's fat and soft body. They fall to the ground, one to snort and the other to laugh happily. Mycroft was fat when he was a kid. Fat and soft and it was a pleasure for Sherlock to stay on him. He found reassuring the mass of fat that surrounded him from head to toe.</p>
<p>"Myc" sobs now against Mary's chest.</p>
<p>"I'm here, little brother."</p>
<p>Sherlock opens his eyes, amazed to hear Mycroft's voice after so long.</p>
<p>"What should I do, Myc?".</p>
<p>"Survive, Sherlock" replies these and the tone is not detached, quite the contrary. "I'm looking for you. You know that I worry about you constantly. You have to be patient and do your best to stay alive. "</p>
<p>Sherlock does not question the truthfulness of his brother's words. Nobody more than Mycroft would move seas and mountains to find him and make sure he is well. Certainly it is a huge ball-breaker that insinuates himself into his life, by pretending to be informed of everything and to control him. It is also true, however, that Mycroft is the only one who has a valid reason to save him. If only to prevent him from throwing  mud on the reputation of Holmes family, as their father used to shout. That's why Sherlock decides to listen to him this time.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; I believe it is better to put things back as they were. What do you think, Mary? &gt;&gt; Sherlock suggest to her.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; That is, to get you back to the storage room? &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Yes. So there will be no problems. If will be possible, you will help me as you did today. Otherwise I'll somehow get by &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; That place is dark and scary, I do not want to close you back there &gt;&gt; sobbing her, squeezing him even more to the chest.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; I know, but what alternative do we have? Outside I would freeze to death and you can't taking me to Hataway. What else can we do? &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; You are really so brave, Eddy &gt;&gt; she tells him, by printing a kiss on Sherlock's forehead.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; You too, Mary &gt;&gt; he reciprocates her, holding her tightly in his arms.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. November 29th</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>November 29th</p>
<p> </p>
<p>John looks at the board on which he pinned all the information he managed to obtain in these four days of research.</p>
<p>Sherlock left the Ski Club at three in the afternoon on November 10th. The storm began half an hour later, with an hour ahead of the forecasts. It takes an hour to reach the police command from the Club and therefore, taking into account the road conditions, the car Sherlock was driving and his driving style, John deduced (thanks to Mycroft's infallible mathematical calculations) that Sherlock's car accident occurred around 3.40 pm. The streets were already whitewashed, but not yet completely impassable. John tried to understand who could have gone there, assuming that, given the season, they could have been only locals. That track, however, was a hole in the water. All the people whom John and Mycroft asked if they passed by that road, sayed that they was there but either long before or long after the time found.</p>
<p>John then went on to evaluate who could have helped Sherlock or where he could have gone to, in case he was able to walk on his legs. There were only four houses in the area and none in the immediate vicinity. Certainly reachable by a man in full physical strength even at that time, but by the condition of the passenger compartment and the amount of blood found inside the car, Sherlock seemed to be in bad conditions.</p>
<p>With the help of Hataway, John contacted three of the four families who lives in the homes around the zone in which they found Sherlock's car, although he had already spoken to all of them, even if at different times. The three repeated that they had not seen anyone, much less rescued anyone. From the research conducted by the teams of volunteers put together by the men of Hataway, howhever nothing had come out.</p>
<p>Nothing even towards the Abbott farm, the only one they have failed to contact, given the communications that always stop there with these climatic conditions. The inspector tried to convince John of the impossibility of Mary's involvement in this story.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; You saw you too, Captain. That woman is big and strange, but she has the soul of a child just six years old. If she had rescued someone would have told me &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Even if he died at home? &gt;&gt; asked John, provocatively.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Of course, even more &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Are you sure? Couldn't she be scared enough to hide her corps somewhere? As you said, she is a six-year-old child and children at that age are afraid of being reprimanded. I seem to have understood that that woman had a very severe father &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; What do you want me to do, then? That we climb up there or that I send someone of mine for an inspection? &gt;&gt; replied the exasperated man. &lt;&lt; If Mary really had buried a corpse in fear, she could have done it anywhere. She have a lot of ground available, you know? &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; It shouldn't be difficult to get a child to speak, Inspector &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Of course, it isn't. However, there is nothing we can do. Have you seen how it is snowing? I do not put anyone's safety at risk, even on board the best of snowmobiles &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>The inspector was categorical and John had to acknowledge that the snow actually got thicker and the wind stronger in a short time. Being out there would have been suicide. Despite this, John cannot find peace.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Sherlock is there, Mycroft, I hear him &gt;&gt; John says now to his unusual roommate. Mycroft, standing behind him, observes the pattern, as attentive as he is.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; An investigation does not solves with the sensations, John. It needs proof &gt;&gt; reminds him. &lt;&lt; How come you have this feeling? Are you being misled by that woman's cognitive impairment? &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; No, that's not it! I'm not so stupid &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Then it is possible that what you call 'sensation' is actually a detail that your eye has caught, but that your conscience has not registered it.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; If so, could you help me recover the data? &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; We can try &gt;&gt; says Mycroft, settling on the bed that Greg had occupied. &lt;&lt; Please &gt;&gt; invites him to sit on the other bed in front of him. John feeling a little tense. &lt;&lt; Go back to the moment when you met that woman and observe her. What strikes you about her? Say all that you find yourself in front of the mind's eyes, without excluding anything &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Undoubtedly the first thing that catches my eye is her size &gt;&gt; John begins, but Mycroft interrupts him immediately.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; You are thinking, it is not a good thing. Just watch. List what you see &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>John squints hard and then slowly relaxes his face. He recalls the exact moment when his eyes landed on Mary Abbott.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; I see a woman almost one meter and eighty tall, with thick and muscular limbs as I happened to see them only in men who are used to splitting wood. She has a square face, a broad forehead and very fine hair held tight in a tail that makes her head seem even bigger. When she wore the fur hat I struggled to define its gender. The hat is old, although it is well kept, as are all the other clothes she wears. A clean person, nothing to say, but scruffy. She was cold. She continues to pull up her scarf to cover her cheeks reddened by the cold. She wears a pair of leather gloves that, although they are large, for men, are small for the huge hands that she finds himself. Hey… wait a moment &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>John opens his eyes and stares at Mycroft in astonishment.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; What's going on? &gt;&gt; he asks, curious.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Oh, fuck, Myc! &gt;&gt;. John leaps to his feet as if struck by the shock, imitated by Mycroft. &lt;&lt; Here's what struck me about her! Oh, Jesus! &gt;&gt; he says, bringing his hands to his hair. &lt;&lt; That scarf. It stood out not only for the color, but also for the fine fabric. An Armani pashmina cobalt blue jeans! How did this woman with years old clothes get a similar precious scarf that cost at least £ 80? What about gloves? They were in deer leather lined in cashmere, always by our favorite Italian designer. They cost a hundred pounds. Where could that woman get similar accessories? It can't be a coincidence that Sherlock usually wears the same scarf and the same gloves, don't you think? &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; The universe is never so lazy as to get lost in coincidences, John &gt;&gt; Mycroft replies, nodding satisfied.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Exactly! Here's what struck me about her. Her face wrapped in a scarf and huge hands held in gloves kept coming back to my mind. Even in a dream ... &gt;&gt; John stops abruptly at the memory of what then turned into a nightmare. &lt;&lt; Sherlock is there, Mycroft. That woman found him and God only knows why she didn't say anything &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Do you think that ... he died and that she has hidden the corpse, frightened? &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; It is what I fear &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; But don't think so. Neither do I &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; As far as I'm concerned, this is what I feel &gt;&gt; John remarks with conviction, supporting the inquisitive gaze of the English government. &lt;&lt; I feel Sherlock is alive, Mycroft. Tattered, perhaps. In danger, even, but alive. I feel miself impotent becouse I can't go there and get him to safety &gt;&gt;. John runs his hand over his face and leaves it on his suddenly stretched lips. &lt;&lt; Although he may not want to have anything more to do with me. It does not matter. As long as he's safe, then ... the rest doesn't count &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Really? &gt;&gt; Mycroft asks incredulously.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Obviously not &gt;&gt;, chuckles, &lt;&lt; but I made a mess. As always. And I can't pretend to get away. Not by him &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; My brother knows how to be magnanimous, John. You better than anyone else should know &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; In fact I know, Mycroft. But it is lapidary with those who commit crime and I have betrayed his trust. No. It is something much worse. Or rather, I sold it to him as something worse, fool that I am. I gave him to understand that I had used him &gt;&gt;</p>
<p>John realizes that I has just admitted to having used Sherlock in front of the man who moves seas and mountains to protect him. If he was in the shoes of Mycroft, he punch himself for the offense to his protégé. Mycroft, on the other hand, just sighs. A long, slow sigh.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Since the first time I saw you and Sherlock together I was taken by the doubt that you could be for my brother or a blessing or a disgrace. Until a few days ago I thought the first. Now I realize that it has always been the second &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Always? Why always? &gt;&gt; he asks incredulously.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; I am sure, my dear doctor, that you have the answer to this question within you, a bit like how you had these details of the  jailer of my brother. I don't want to know anything else about what happened between you and Sherlock. If it's true, though, that you let him know you used him, well, then I'm afraid you lost him, John. I wonder why you have to put such an idea into Sherlock's head if this is not true. I wonder why you ordinary human beings have to be so damn idiotic! &gt;&gt; Mycroft snaps, hitting the palm of his left hand with his right fist. John has never seen Mycroft so angry, even in moments of greater discussion with his brother. &lt;&lt; Self-esteem problems. Your ex-therapist was bad, but she caught you in this. You have ruined not only your life, but that of another man, whom you also care about, only for your damned self-esteem problems &gt;&gt;. Mycroft sighs and tries to calm himself down. He shakes his head several times. &lt;&lt; I'm sorry. Really. He didn't deserve it. He has already gone through so many &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>"Me too" John would like to reply, but he realizes that he would only make a slim figure. He has no idea what the things Mycroft is referring to. It cannot therefore make a comparison. And even if he could, this wouldn't ease his guilt. He acted like an asshole. As a great asshole. And selfish too. And yes, Sherlock didn't deserve it. It may deserve many things, given his character, but not this. No.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>***</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Sherlock observes the mass grave from its edge. The cobalt blue scarf protects his throat from the cutting wind. He pulled up the collar of his coat and barely feels his fingers getting cold inside the deer leather gloves.</p>
<p>"You're back, Mr Sexy ”applauds Moriarty, looking at him with far too brazen interest. "I deduce you solved the case."</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Yes, I solved it &gt;&gt; nods Sherlock.</p>
<p>"This, however, does not change your situation, my friend," says the man, clapping him on the shoulder. Moriarty leans in turn to observe the corpses frozen by the cold. "Solved or not, soon you too will find yourself part of this cheerful gang."</p>
<p>Dry blows break the whistling of the wind. They don't even bother Sherlock anymore. They have become part of the context, now.</p>
<p>"She'll end up throw down the door, sooner or later," James snorts annoyed. "Well, you know what she wants from you. What are you waiting to please her?" Moriarty spurs him, by pressing his hands over his ears.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; I am sorry. I regret all my sins, Mary &gt;&gt; Sherlock mutters.</p>
<p>"A little emphasis would be welcome," the criminal reproaches him.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Why on earth? Do you think it would really make a difference? If she decides to open the door, this is where she will take me. She has already decided it. She is just waiting for the storm to end &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>"Aren't you afraid of death, then?" Moriarty asks incredulously.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Yes, I fear it. I believe, however, that, by now, I don't care much about living anymore &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>The criminal starts laughing. A coarse laugh, without any sense in front of what he has just confessed to him.</p>
<p>"This is the biggest bullshit I've heard," Moriarty says, laughing. "All this because of that John Watson?" he says, pronouncing that name with disgust. "Are you serious? Just because he fucked you just to get rid of the whim? Oh God, how dramatic you are! "</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Please, shut up! &gt;&gt; Sherlock growls, annoyed by his mockery.</p>
<p>"Why do you have to pull it so long, I say?" continues Moriarty, ignoring him. "Did you like it? Did he enjoy you? Well, keep this and throw everything else away. You knew well how an idiot was John, like everyone else. He only confirmed it to you. Do you know what news? Every day people confirm their idiocy. "</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; I told you to shut up! &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>“You, on the other hand, have to stick to the words he said to you. Words, words… well, they're just words you're turning into a problem. The final problem, we could say, given the importance you are giving it. And for this 'problem' you are willing to let a furious madwoman do what she wants with you. Oh my God, it's ok our dear doctor, but that woman ... uff! " huffed in horror. “A woman, Jesus! Here you are again endangered by a woman. "</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Enough now! &gt;&gt; Sherlock shouts, jumping to the neck of the criminal consultant. Moriarty laughs amused, while Sherlock hits him with punches and kicks that seem, however, not to cause him any harm.</p>
<p>"Oh yes, finally some vitality! It's for something I said, isn't it? Something that has nothing to do with our Johnny-boy! "</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Shut up! Shut up! &gt;&gt; Sherlock continues to shout, clutching his hands around Moriarty's throat more and more.</p>
<p>"Come on, don't keep everything inside! We solve our final problem ".</p>
<p>James grabs both of Sherlock's wrists and jumps towards him. Sherlock cannot keep his balance and together they fall into the pit. This, however, is much more profound. Infinity. They fall down for a time that seems eternal, a time in which Sherlock has only the mad smile of his archenemy before his eyes.</p>
<p>They touch the ground, finally. The impact is strong to the point of creating a twinge of intense back pain. The backlash of Moriarty's body that falls on him takes Sherlock's breath away.</p>
<p>"Really? Look where we ended up, ”says Moriarty, sitting comfortably on his belly.</p>
<p>Sherlock opens his eyes and it doesn't take long for him to realize that they are in Baker street, lying on top of each other on the living room floor.</p>
<p>"Wow, I didn't know you were a contortionist too," he says mischievously, observing with satisfaction what is happening on the sofa. “To see you I wouldn't say it. You give the idea of being rigid, woody. But look at how interesting your flexibility is,” Moriarty  says, turning Sherlock's head forcefully towards the scene.</p>
<p>Seen from outside, Sherlock must admit it is creepy. He finds nothing of the pleasantness he felt. He sees only one naked body raging on another and this other inciting him to continue.</p>
<p>"Seen from outside, sexual intercourse is violent" James whispers in Sherlock's ear. “It is almost difficult to distinguish rape from a consensual relationship. The facial expression of pleasure is completely similar to that of pain. Also the cries that are produced. Then, when the two subjects are so tight against each other, it is even more difficult. Does one squeeze the other to prevent him from running away or to keep him pleasantly to himself? And the other sinks his nails into the flesh in a desperate attempt to defend himself or for a voluptuous animal gesture? But I'm asking too many questions" Moriarty laughs, his warm breath touching Sherlock's face," I just think you're beautiful. So free, without any inhibition, devoted to the exclusive pursuit of carnal pleasure. Alive! Oh dear, yes, you are alive for once, at least, in your life made of continuous deductions ".</p>
<p>Sherlock would like to look away but he can't. He stands there, watching himself inciting John and getting more and more relentlessly close to the moment he has lost all control.</p>
<p>"It was nice, wasn't it?" James asks him without any modesty.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Yes &gt;&gt; Sherlock admits and only now can he close his eyes. He knows what he's going to say.</p>
<p>"Oh," exclaims Moriarty, in amazement. "Did you really say that?" he asks, bringing both hands to the face, theatrically. “Sherlock, but it's not done! It is not done! There is nothing more naive than declaring your love on the wave of orgasm" he says, crossing his arms over his chest.</p>
<p>Sherlock knows he was wrong. If he hadn't declared his love to him, maybe John wouldn't have pulled back. Love is too demanding, especially if declared so early.</p>
<p>"You say?" James asks, watching him and John as they exchange now sweeter and slower kisses. “I think he would have done it anyway. He just wanted to fuck you and he did. Also good as far as I see. What do you care about something as human and useless as love? " Moriarty asks horrified. “You know what this brings. Only death and destruction. Love is only a problem. "</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Yes &gt;&gt; Sherlock nods. This absurd sentiment can only bring problems. Huge problems.</p>
<p>"This isn't the final problem, though," James whispers as he gets close again.</p>
<p>The door opens and the violent light that enters the darkness in which he is trapped snatches Sherlock from its Mind Place.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Hurry, we must hurry! &gt;&gt; Mary-child whispers. She lifts him from his bed made of excrement and vomit with the same simplicity with which a little girl would pick up a doll from the ground. Sherlock lets himself be carried away by those rock-hard arms that gently place him in the tub. The bites of abstinence have now passed, which means that a long time must have passed since the punishment of isolation began. Although the pain in the stomach and the gaps have passed Sherlock is now a prey to great tiredness. His leg still hurts, though less than at the beginning. The bone must have almost welded. How it is not known. He will remain lame. Hopelessly lame. He laughs like an idiot after that observation. Fragments of memories related to the first hours spent with John, in which he still walking clinging to his stick, come back to him. The doctor's was a psychosomatic lameness. His, however, will be painfully true. Here it is, again, the summary of his whole life expressed in a thought. Other people live annoying situations, yes, but passing. He, instead, lives only permanent damage for which there is no remedy.</p>
<p>"Please give this drama queen an Oscar!" Moriarty exclaims. The fact that his voice insinuates his thoughts even now that he is not in his Mind Palace should worry him, instead he does not give him much weight. Sherlock carries on that shower that barely heats him, aware of the fact that Mary will soon return to bring him back to his cell, whispering the need to hurry. Sherlock wraps himself in the rough bathrobe and crouches on the tub board and that's how Mary finds him.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Are you already done? &gt;&gt; she asks in amazement, offering him the bowl full of the usual boiling chicken broth. She sits next to him and as always watches him eat slowly. When he is done, she gets up with the usual urgency, ready to load him on her arms and bring him back inside.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; No, Mary, wait &gt;&gt; stops her, leaving her speechless. &lt;&lt; It's about to end, isn't it? &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; The storm, you say? Yes. The wind has dropped and it already snows much less &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Not the storm, Mary. My life. She will take me to the pit as soon as the snow stops falling &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; I ... how do you know? &gt;&gt; she asks scared.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Oh, you have a lot of time to listen when you are closed in a dark storage room &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>Mary knots in a convulsive way the ugly braid that she has been made today and that falls on her shoulder .</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; I tried to make her think, but she is so angry with you and does not believe in your repentance &gt;&gt; she tries to justify herself on the verge of tears.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; No, Mari. I think she already knew what to do with me from the moment she found me. The same thing your father used to do. You knew it and wanted to take me downstream, but the storm prevented you from saving me &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>The woman's mouth draws a funny 'O'. The hand that knots the braid stops completely, prey of amazement. Her face then squeezes like a sponge and explodes into tears.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; I'm sorry, Edward &gt;&gt; sobbing, stroking Sherlock's damp hair with her hand. &lt;&lt; I never wanted anyone to be hurt. I always trembled when my father or brothers brought an injured stranger home. I knew he wasn't going home, whether there was snow or not. They cleaned them of everything and then, when they took them to the pit, they left them there to die &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Do yuo killed them for that reason, Mary? &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>She shivers now at this umpteenth deduction.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; How do you know? &gt;&gt; asks him, her face pale and tense.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Because you are a good girl and you just wanted to stop them. Both to kill strangers and to punish you. That storage room is not nice. It's dark, tight and cold &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; I had to do it &gt;&gt; she still tries to justify herself while the tears roll on her square face.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; I know, I understand it &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Aren't you mad at me, Ed? &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; No, Mary. You executed murderers. I am sorry only you have not been able to eliminate them all &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; I tried, but I can't &gt;&gt; she admits in tears.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Oh, it's difficult, I know. But that's okay. I'm not leaving anyone. I'm ready &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; How don't you leave anyone? What about Molly? &gt;&gt; asks him. The bright eyes she puts on, every time he talks about Molly, look at him upset.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; She will find a person more present than me and capable of loving her &gt;&gt; he answers, thinking of how absurd that thought, that conversation, all this situation is.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; No! She will suffer. Molly will suffer a lot, instead &gt;&gt; she replies desperately bringing her hands to her hair.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; It is possible, but ... there is nothing we can do. When the storm ends, my life will end with it &gt;&gt;.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. November 30th</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>November 30th</p>
<p> </p>
<p>&lt;&lt; If I'm not mistaken, I had told you from the beginning that that woman did not like me &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>John punches the inspector's desk, causing a few sheets to fly across the floor.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Captain, I couldn't imagine that ... &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; I understand! Now that even from the coroner's findings on those corpses came out a lot of evidence on how totally crazy she is, why are we still here instead of being already on the way to her house? It has stopped snowing for some time now &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; The snowplows are doing everything possible to make the roads accessible &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Hataway, let me go up with a snowcat! &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Captain, I can not allow you to go alone to Mary Abbott! Especially after what we have discover about her &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; My friend could be trapped there! &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; I'm sorry to tell you, but if things are really like this, it is more likely that Mr Holmes has already been buried somewhere &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>John clenches his fists and tries to stay calm. Mycroft's hand rests on his shoulder and John is amazed at the calming effect that that simple gesture can have on him. Mycroft says nothing. He just squeeze John's shoulder before withdrawing his hand. The phone rings and the inspector does not let him arrive on the second ring. He mutters a few monosyllables before hanging up.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; The snowplows have arrived where Mr Holmes' car was found. They estimate they are from Abbott in three hours &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>John brings his hand to his disconsolate face. Three hours. Other  three fucking hours. John nods helplessly and walks away from the group without saying a word. He sits in one of the armchairs placed in front of the fireplace in the waiting room of the police station.</p>
<p>John watch the flames dancing just as it did on Sunday morning. That morning, he shifted his gaze at almost regular intervals from the flames to the pleasantly asleep consultant on the sofa. John had spread a blanket over Sherlock, that he had snuck into. Sherlock had a serene smile on his face and slept as John had never seen him do in this long year of connivance.</p>
<p>There was a note of pride in John's soul for having been the architect of Sherlock's state of bliss. There was, however, also a bigger slice of sense of responsibility for that happiness. John would have to bear the weight, do his utmost to maintain it and above all give himself permission to live it in turn. Too many things all together and all fantastic. No, it couldn't really be for him. It would have been an idyll that would have died out, as had happened so many times before. Only this time John didn't even want to try, because the person who was sleeping blissfully over the sofa was not like everyone else. That person wa intelligent, fragile and John did not want to risk destroying everything after some time with some escapade or with the usual wrong joke or questionable behavior. So, he tought that was better to destroy it immediately.</p>
<p>When John heard Sherlock muttering in his sleep, sniffing the imminent awakening, he stood up and stood looking at him. He would have liked to come closer to him, caress his hair and face and put a kiss on those lips that he had tormented with pleasure. Instead John staied far from doing anything. He remained motionless, his fists clenched, and when Sherlock's eyes opened and met his, when Sherlock gave him that beautiful serene smile, John sincerely faltered. That 'I love you' pronounced by Sherlock, invaded John's mind, clenched his stomach and shook his body with shivers of fear.</p>
<p>"It's too much for me. Too much".</p>
<p>Sherlock immediately noticed his attitude. He sat down, wrapping himself in the blanket, as if he had suddenly felt embarrassed. There was no longer any trace of the smile or the expression of bliss on his face.</p>
<p>"I destroyed something beautiful, ”thought John, before opening that damned mouth and giving voice to the most senseless, useless and painful speech he've ever had. Every time he raised his eyes to meet Sherlock, he saw his face ever more astonished, incredulous. Each time it was a stab in the heart and, although John wondered why he was doing all this, he failed to stop. He could says that was a joke and that he wanted to make fun of him. They could have pretended to quarrel for a while and end the argument with some great morning sex. No. John went on, despite Sherlock's silence, despite wanting to ask him to say something. And it was devastating when Sherlock finally said something.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; I was just the umpteenth notch on the belt, then. All right. Okay so &gt;&gt; he whispered and then get up, wrapped in the blanket, and shut himself in the bathroom. John stayed for hours waiting for him to get out of there. Hours marked by the active shower of the tub. The hot water must have been long ended, yet Sherlock did not seem to want to get out from under the jet.</p>
<p>John didn't hold up. He went up to his room, put on the first clothes that came under his hand and went out on the cold Sunday morning of November. When he returned, Sherlock was not at home. John hasn't seen him since. The last things he has left of Sherlock are that sentence and his exit from the scene.</p>
<p>The doctor runs his hands over his tired face. He shouldn't have allowed that evening to take place. When Bryan started playing the fool with Sherlock, John would have to take sides with his friend and put a stop to his ex-comrade. Instead he did nothing. John stood there watching, while Bryan forcefully dragged Sherlock out of 221B, merely rolling his eyes and snorting. This is because, after all, he liked the idea of also having Sherlock at one of their evenings in the pub. Although he knew how much Sherlock would have felt like a fish out of water in that environment. The John's desire to see Sherlock in a common place, to do common actions (such as drinking a beer, listening to music) was stronger than common sense.</p>
<p>"I tried to change him" he thinks and the confused looks that Sherlock launched him at the pub, the discomfort so well imprinted on his face, come back to him. When John saw him drinking, he realized that he had made a real trouble not to allow Sherlock to stay at home, as he would have liked.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; John, I guess it is better if you take him away from here and quickly &gt;&gt; Greg said elbowing him, when he saw him shake off Bryan, that he was taking too much freedom whit him.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; If there is nothing between you and your flatmate, you will not have anything against it if I try to become more 'intimate' with him &gt;&gt; the ex soldier had told John a few minutes after meeting Sherlock. John stomach tightened at the idea that someone, especially someone like Bryan, might have the intention of flirting with his flatmate. Yet he did not object, by citing his interest in the consultant.</p>
<p>"Look at what we've come to, for trying to protect I don't even know what anymore" John sighs, leaning towards the fireplace. The heat wave burns his skin.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; I'll burn your heart &gt;&gt; Moriarty had told Sherlock. John can't help but chuckle thinking that the Napoleon of the crime will not even have to get his hands dirty. John had burn Sherlock's heart.  Him, the blogger without whom the consulting detective would be lost.</p>
<p>Someone coughs behind him. John turns and finds Mycroft standing by his side, a cup of tea in his hands.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; I thought that something hot would do you good &gt;&gt; he says, handing the cup to him.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Thank you &gt;&gt; John replies, taking the cup from his hands. It is pleasantly warm at the right point. John brings it to his lips and takes a sip finding it really delicious.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; My brother puts so much sugar to make it undrinkable. I see that you, on the other hand, appreciate its natural aroma, like me &gt;&gt; he says, taking a seat in the free chair beside him. &lt;&lt; You didn't kill him, John &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; He is not dead, Mycroft. I feel ... yes, I feel it. He's still alive, Mycroft. One like Sherlock is not killed so easily &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; You despair as if him were died. I repeat that it wasn't you &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; How can you not be mad at me? Greg turned his back on me when I told him what had happened, taking his part. You, instead, bring me tea. We are talking about your brother! &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>Mycroft takes a long sip while remaining silent, his gaze on the flames dancing happily.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; What else should I do? &gt;&gt; Mycroft retorts, shrugging. &lt;&lt; As I already told you, what happened between you and my brother is not my business. Any kind of involvement is none of my business. What fault would you have if not that of behaving like most men? Of course, I would have hoped it would not be so and, of course, especially Sherlock hoped it would.</p>
<p>John, how long could it last? Sherlock has an impossible character and your boundless patience would come to an end. It's easier to lose it when relationships get more intimate.  Would be logical the opposite, but it seems that this is not the case at all. You would have betrayed Sherlock, sooner or later, and he would have found out and it would have ended much worse. So I think your decision was the most sensible. Painful, I don't doubt it, and for both sides, but sensible &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>Hearing Mycroft put into words the justification he gave himself to take courage and give voice to that absurd speech, leaves John speechless. He never thought about the future of a relationship. He always just threw himself headlong, taking what there was. John's relationships ended because women are lefted him, every time. He is not in accord with Mycroft, because he would have written the ending of a possible relationship with Sherlock differently: also this time he would have been left. Sherlock would left him out of boredom, for lack of stimuli, for lack of interest, once he has become an obvious routine. Yes, John is convinced of this, he just cannot put it into words. What would be the use of replying at Mycroft's question, if not to make the figure of the one who wants to play the victim after having wanted at all costs to play the role of the executioner?</p>
<p>“I will be satisfied, then, to bring Sherlock home safely" he sighs. These three hours will also pass and they'll go to that house of horrors and there they will find him. John's more than sure. And Sherlock will be alive. Yes, it can only be this way. John wants it to be so.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>***</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The door opens and the light hurts his eyes once again. The last. From the bottom of his desperate condition, Sherlock can see Mary rise in her mighty size. The ruthless gaze, the mouth a pale clean line. She says nothing. She stands there, one hand at the door and the other along the side.</p>
<p>Sherlock also says nothing. What could there be to say? There is no trace of the child-Mary in that rough statue that looks at him sternly.</p>
<p>She grabs him by the arm and drags him out of the storage room and then down the stairs. Sherlock tries to be silency. He doesn't want violent-Mary to be mad at him, making what is going to happen even more painful.</p>
<p>Mary opens the front door and drags him out of the house. The cold envelops Sherlock, piercing his flesh like a thousand pins. Sherlock starts shaking like a leaf and chattering his teeth. Deaf of the complaints that the consultant involuntarily produces, Mary lifts him off the ground and throws him with no grace inside the van. Stay still with her hand clinging to the door handle.</p>
<p>"Maybe I still have hope" Sherlock thinks, looking at that statue of flesh. "Maybe child-Mary will take over and take me to Hataway, as I proposed," he hopes with all his might.</p>
<p>The woman wakes up and with quick gestures moves to the passenger side door and seems to be looking for something inside the passenger compartment. She throws Sherlock a blanket and without deigning him a glance, she closes the side door.</p>
<p>"I'm sorry to tell you, but I think that Mary only managed to get this blanket from your tormentor" Moriarty tells him, appearing sitting against the hatch. Sherlock ignores his irony and, with movements made less secure and slower by the tremor, wraps himself in that knitted wool rectangle. It has the scent of burnt wood and a lavender aftertaste, just like that of the fireplace. The slight warmth helps Sherlock to quell the chills, although at almost regular intervals they return to shake him from head to toe. He crouches in a fetal position just as he had done that Sunday morning, when he felt the sweet weight of the blanket resting on him by John.</p>
<p> "Do you hope it, tell me the truth?" James chuckles.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; In what? &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>“You hope John runs to save you. The damsel in danger, rescued by her bold prince charming ".</p>
<p>Sherlock thinks about it for a few moments. Yes, maybe part of him hopes to be saved. He is a human being after all. He feels, however, that he is wrapped in a heavy veil of indifference. He does not care. To live, to die. To be saved or not. He does not care.</p>
<p>"Really?".</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Yes &gt;&gt; answers with conviction. &lt;&lt; For too long I have fought against people's boredom and idiocy. Maybe that's the better thing for me &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>"He died during an investigation. In turn victim of the mad serial killer that he was chasing ". Yes, it's sounds good as headline from major news outlets ” notes James. "Tell me, though, if things had gone differently with your doctor, would you have let yourself go like this?".</p>
<p>The Napoleon of crime, or rather the version of him who lives in Sherlock's Mind Palace, aske him an uncomfortable question that leaves him speechless.</p>
<p>"I believe," continues Moriarty approaching him, "that if John, that Sunday morning, instead of with that inconsistent and demeaning speech, had welcomed your awakening with a kiss and many sweet cuddles, you would have try from the beginning to return safe and sound from him. You would certainly not be here, so helpless and disheartened, ready to die for 'love'. "</p>
<p>Sherlock cannot reply to Moriarty stark truth. His stomach contracts, leaving an acidic taste in his mouth. Taste that reminds Sherlock of how he vomited, and quite a lot, that Sunday morning. He had closed himself in the bathroom, opened the shower of the tub and he let himself be overwhelmed by the retching. Maybe he would have ended up throwing up his soul anyway, even if John had behaved differently. He had drunk far too much and he was not used to. It had been, however, even more humiliating to embrace the toilet to vomit after those words.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; We got carried away a bit, Sherlock &gt;&gt; John had started, serious and distant. &lt;&lt; We were both drunk and ... it can happen. Yes, I would say that can happen &gt;&gt; he had wrinkled his nose in the way Sherlock always found funny, but that at that moment it was not at all. &lt;&lt; I think it is better that this remain an isolated fact not to be repeated. I think it's better for both &gt;&gt; he concluded by wetting his lips.</p>
<p>"And you, on the other hand, were expecting declarations of eternal love and much more tender sex," shakes Moriarty.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Why shouldn't I have? &gt;&gt; Sherlock retorts, finally showing a reaction.</p>
<p>“My dear, I'm not saying you shouldn't have been. You missed the times, as always” James points out. "In short, you know who we are talking about, come on! Jesus, you told him to love him! Someone like John runs away from such statements because he doesn't feel up to it. Johnny-boy knows he's just the comic shoulder of the great consulting detective! His task is to write about you, your deeds. The narrator is hardly considered, you know? All the attention is concentrated on the protagonist and you are the type of person who wallows in similar attentions".</p>
<p>Sherlock presses his hands hard on his ears. He doesn't want to hear these words. This terrible truth. He cannot think of being anything other than a victim of what has happened. He wants to blame John and keep the reasons to himself.</p>
<p>The van suddenly stops. Mary slams down the door. Sherlock hears her heavy footsteps, muffled by the snow, go around the van and open the tailgate. Sherlock tightens even more in the blanket lowered on the face. Mary huge hands grab him. Sherlock offer no resistance as he pulls him out of the van. She holds him in his arms and he barely sees her serious, concentrated face. Mary then stops and remains still for a long moment. The wind is strong and makes the blanket dance. Sherlock trembles and teeth chatter.</p>
<p>"It's terrible," he thinks, stung by a thousand icy pins.</p>
<p>Suddenly the support of Mary's strong arms is lost and Sherlock falls. He shouts taken by surprise and immediately hits the cold and hard surface of the pit.</p>
<p>Mary's heavy footsteps muffled by the snow move away. A door is opened and then closed again. The engine starts and the van leaves.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Dicember 1th</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>December 1th</p>
<p> </p>
<p>John sniffs the air. It's the first thing Sherlock usually does when they come to a new crime scene. He come in, look around and smell the air. Sherlock is able to list one by one the smells he perceives and give each of them his exact sense of being, like a hound. John finds yet another fantastic gift of the brilliant man with whom he has the honor of living and who now tries to emulate.</p>
<p>John, Mycroft, Hataway and his men broke into Mary's house at just past midnight. They found her wrapped in an old shawl, confused by their presence. John let Hataway do his work by arresting her and he rushed into the house, followed by Mycroft, looking for Sherlock.</p>
<p>In the distance, he hears the submissive tone of the woman's voice, who defends herself by saying she does not understand why they are arresting her. John must make an effort to shut her out of his mind and focus on the investigations, instead of jumping at her throat.</p>
<p>In the air, the smell of burnt wood and lavender mixes with that of chicken broth and the bitter one of disinfectant. There is something in this house that makes John shiver. The furniture is old, but well kept and the acid green wallpaper is a very questionable furniture choice. It is not that, however, that worries him. It is far too tidy and clean. Aseptic, one might say. Just like a hospital.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; These signs on the carpet &gt;&gt; says Mycroft, pointing to the steps of the stairs. John does not listen further and follows what the consulting detective's brother indicated. He hardly hears the woman asking the inspector why the two Londoners are taking similar liberties in her home. Hataway leaving her to his men (he has carried almost all the command) for follow them upstairs.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; It also seems to you that something has been dragged on this carpet, Myc? &gt;&gt; John asks, keeping his gaze fixed on the different tracks which cross each other clearly on the carpet and which seem to have been caused by the dragging of something heavy.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Yes &gt;&gt; Mycroft nods, following the signs on the second flight of stairs.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; I take a look in the rooms on this floor, Captain &gt;&gt; informs Hataway, tha became more compliant to John's requests, since the coroner told them that among the 40 corpses found in the pit there were also those of the four brothers and the woman's mother. The last corps that Mary threw in the pit was that of her mother just over a year ago. Since then it seems that no others have been brought there.</p>
<p>"Assuming she didn't bury them on his land," John thinks shivering.</p>
<p>The doctor just nods to the inspector, without giving too much weight to his words. John follows the track on the carpet, which from the stairs seems to divide in two directions: one door to the bathroom, the other to a closed door.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; The rooms are all empty, Captain &gt;&gt; Hataway tells him, while John observes the bathroom from the door. &lt;&lt; Old Liland used these rooms for the patients. They all seem like hospital rooms, in fact. He was a methodical and organized man, as I said &gt;&gt; Hataway adds, scratching his head visibly uncomfortable. He must not have experienced more complicated cases than an accidental death or road accidents. This provincial inspector has visibly disturbed to find out that one of the women with whom he often spoke is a mad murderess .</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Can you smell this strong smell of disinfectant, Inspector? &gt;&gt; John asks him, entering the bathroom.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; It would be impossible to do otherwise &gt;&gt; he answers, wrinkling his nose.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Exactly &gt;&gt; John nods, examining a 'parrot' and the basins from which the stench of disinfectant intensely spreads. &lt;&lt; It comes, however, only from two rooms. This and that &gt;&gt; says, pointing to the other closed door. &lt;&lt; And, coincidentally, the grooves on the carpet lead to these rooms &gt;&gt; he adds, leaving the bathroom to go to the closed door. John grab the handle, but the door is locked. The wood is very damaged, as if it had suffered violent attacks. John's heart beats strongly at the idea that Sherlock may be in there and, without thinking twice, opens it with a shoulder (which although he used his right side, does not like much to his left shoulder, but they are negligible details, at the moment).</p>
<p>What turns out to be a storage room, however, contains only a series of boxes stacked on each other.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; There is nothing in here! &gt;&gt; Hataway exclaims, peeping behind him.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; This does not mean that there hasn't been &gt;&gt; John replies, finding this man's comment really idiotic. &lt;&lt; The smell of ammonia here is even stronger. This place has been cleaned recently, and with care &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>John turns on the bulb from the switch located outside and looks at the floor. This is the only way to notice the presence of scratches on the inside of the door.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Oh my God! &gt;&gt; he exclaims, capturing the attention of the inspector, who indulges in a colorful curse when he sees the furrows on the wood, surely left by human nails.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; John, come here! &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>Mycroft calls him from the floor above. John takes a moment to recover from what he has discovered and order his legs to reach Mycroft. He finds him on the threshold of one of the rooms on the floor.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; This room has been not only cleaned, but recently disinfected &gt;&gt; Mycroft tells him, wrinkling his nose at the intense smell of ammonia. &lt;&lt; The mattress is more loose than that of the other rooms, a sign that it has hosted someone for a long time. The fireplace has just been turned off &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; In the storage room, downstairs, I found scratches on the inside of the door. There, too, great and meticulous cleaning was done &gt;&gt; John informs him, clenching his fists.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; The confirmation of my brother's presence in this house, however, is obtained from two objects that I found here. One is this &gt;&gt; says Mycroft, putting a violin case under John's nose. &lt;&lt; It must have been a long time since no one opened it. The hinges are rusty &gt;&gt; he explains with a strange tiredness in his voice. &lt;&lt; However, it was recently played and ... look here &gt;&gt; Mycroft says, indicating the hanging of the strings on the tailpiece. &lt;&lt; In tuning it, a rope must have escaped the tailpiece and Sherlock put it in place by knotting it in the way he invented and which, in his opinion, is more resistant &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>John remembers well the detailed explanation Sherlock gave him one evening, while changing the strings on the violin. After a while John got lost and started nodding without following him much. John also behaved like everyone else, bored with Sherlock's too many words. However, he could not keep up with him. He would never be able to keep up with him.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Also, under a piece of furniture placed near the fireplace, I found this &gt;&gt; Mycroft says, showing him a piece of scorched cobalt blue fabric.</p>
<p>The Sherlock's scarf. The beautiful blue scarf that John many times has seen him tie and remove from his pale long neck. The neck on which he sank his teeth several times that Saturday night, leaving signs that Sherlock is likely to still have now. Because Sherlock is alive. He is not there, where John was more than sure they would have found him, but he feels that Sherlock is still alive.</p>
<p>John is furious at the idea that they may have arrived late. He quickly descends the stairs and moves like a fury toward the big woman.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Where did you take him? &gt;&gt; he asks her, trying to overcome the instinct to grab her by the collar of the flannel shirt that pops out from under the shawl.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Who are you talking about? &gt;&gt; she replies amazed.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Who am I talking about? &gt;&gt; John repeats, laughing. &lt;&lt; I'm talking about the person you held captive in the storage room on the first floor. Of the one who played the violin for you in the second floor room. I'm talking about the owner of what was once a blue scarf &gt;&gt; he says, flapping the shred of fabric under her nose.</p>
<p>The woman falters in front of John's fury and seems to be about to say something, but stops completely, as had happened to her in front of Jo's shop.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Captain, I'm afraid you went down heavy with her. If her explodes furiously, all the men present here will not be enough to keep her calm &gt;&gt; whispers Hataway, his worried gaze fixed on the woman.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; I don't care, Inspector. She may have gotten rid of him recently. The smell of ammonia is terribly strong and therefore recent. I'm not going to waste any more time &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>John starts to shake the woman who, however, wakes up on her own. She looks at him with different eyes, more sincere and young, like those of a little girl.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; I didn't want to &gt;&gt; she whispers in a broken voice. &lt;&lt; I tried to stop her, but did not listen to me &gt;&gt; adds and big shiny tears are released from the eyes and roll on her cheeks. &lt;&lt; I convinced her to leave him a blanket, so maybe he can survive &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>All present hold their breath in front of those nonsensical but terribly clear words.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Where did she take him, Mary? &gt;&gt; John asks her, feeling the urgency to find Sherlock.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; To the pit &gt;&gt; she admits, squinting.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; When? &gt;&gt; John asks her with so much emphasis to scare her.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; I ... I do not know ... she told me to clean everything when she returned &gt;&gt; repliesn shrugging.</p>
<p>John doesn't need to hear anything else. He runs outside without thinking twice. Hataway call him back, but he doesn't want to loose time. John sees the inspector and some of his men running towards him, who is already driving out of that hellish house.</p>
<p>"Please stay alive!" he thinks, making screech the wheels. "Stay alive!" he repeats, hurtling on the road just swept by the snow, against which the chains fixed to the wheels creak, producing a ghostly sound.</p>
<p>***</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Sherlock look at himself tremble, wrapped in the blanket that covers him from head to toe. A cocoon of a discolored pink-gray thrown into a freshly cleaned pit. He solved this case too. He does not believe, however, that he will be able to boast about it, this time.</p>
<p>The cry of a woman takes him by surprise and turns in the direction from which he comes. Sherlock sees a gate in the distance and a car a few meters from it. A lifeless body equidistant from both.</p>
<p>Sherlock is located immediately next to this corps. It lies on his back, his glazed gaze fixed on the sky and an expression of frozen amazement on his face. This man was hit in the chest by a gunshot. Straight to the heart, with no escape.</p>
<p>"Why did I end up here?" he asks himself clenching his fists.</p>
<p>"Because are you going to die, Sherlock," Moriarty tells him, appearing behind him. “It is said that each of us relives his life before dying. You came back here, where your problem started. "</p>
<p>The woman screams again, a louder and more desperate scream this time.</p>
<p>"Yes, I have to admit that in this case you were an innocent victim," says the criminal, patting him on the shoulder. “You have been caught in the middle of a bigger situation than you. What do you say, he was a handsome man? " he asks, touching the lifeless body with the tip of his fine leather shoes.</p>
<p>Sherlock just gives him a look.</p>
<p>“Come on, won't you be condemning her? Everyone is looking for their love. 'All you need is love', the Beatles also said. Oh yeah, you don't even know who the Beatles are, am I right? " Moriarty asks and Sherlock just shakes his head. "Yeah," James replies, smacking his lips. “Your father was the type of person I would have happily collaborated with. Colder than your brother. The king of ice men ”he says satisfied. “This anonymous creature must have given her the warmth she didn't get from him. Who knows, maybe what she didn't even know existed. Was she a math, am I right? " he asks and Sherlock nods. "Perfect. Numbers and feelings travel on opposite tracks. It must have been a real discovery for her. Who knows, maybe this would have made her happy. She wanted to take you with her, so somehow she cared about you. Who knows what it would have been to grow up with them, away from the ancestors' house? I bet you thought about it now and then ”says Moriarty on by elbowing him.</p>
<p>Sherlock, however, does not react. He stares at the wide open gate that leads onto the path. The screams have stopped coming to his ear for some time now.</p>
<p>"A bad death," says Moriarty gravely. “Strange expression, don't you think? It assumes that there is a beautiful death. Absurd” he laughs, completely disrespectful of his disturbance. “We should deduce from this that your death is among those that can be said to be beautiful, since you will soon fall asleep. And you'll also feeling a pleasant warmth. The first man buried in his Mind Palace" plays Moriarty theatrically, accompanying these last words with wide gestures of the arms. “I want you to know that I will miss you. Really,” he admits, bringing his hand to his chest. “I would like to had the pleasure of killing you. Apparently, however, a woman crazy psychopath and a little stupid, managed to do it before me. Patience ”Moriarty shrugs.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; She is not stupid &gt;&gt; Sherlock whispers, finally speaking. Moriarty approaches him curiously. &lt;&lt; Mary is not stupid &gt;&gt; Sherlock repeats, looking him in the face. &lt;&lt; She had a terrible family of killers, but, because she having eliminated them, people will say that she is the mad and bloody murderer. Nobody will stop to think that she has suffered the worst abuses every day, every night. That, if she created different personalities, she did it only to try to survive. People will see her for what she appears: a gigantic, disturbing woman. The disarming tenderness in her will not make the news. The crystalline voice with which she sings is not interesting, as is her laughter. Better to underline the monster, to describe all the most macabre details of her murders. Her  family humiliated her, segregated her, enslaved her and raped her, but this will not make the news! &gt;&gt; Sherlock ends with clenched teeth.</p>
<p>Moriarty looks at him curiously.</p>
<p>"You know, I'm wondering if yours is Stockholm syndrome or if, in some way, you see yourself in her" Moriarty observes, chuckling. "I just think that if you came back here before passing away, it's because this woman allowed the circle opened by that other woman to close. Here, because of your mother's reprehensible behavior, you were almost killed by your father, "he says, showing him his left hand. "There, because of your doctor's equally reprehensible behavior, you allowed Mary to kill you," he says, showing him his right hand. "That's all," Moriarty concludes, joining his hands. “Here is the circle closed. A frustrated woman created the problem and another frustrated woman solved it. Easy isn't it? "</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Not at all &gt;&gt; Sherlock says and this time it's him to chuckle. &lt;&lt; This story is anything but easy. The 'final problem', as you like to call it, may also have been created by my mother, but she is not the cause &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>"Oh" exclaims James caught by lighting. “It is your father, then! He is the final problem to be solved. Yes, in fact everything is lined up. John made you feel like a whore and Mister Holmes was the first to says that you are a whore, am I right? ”.</p>
<p>These words squeeze Sherlock's stomach so hard that he makes an effort to keep from vomiting.</p>
<p>"Don't keep it inside, Sherlock?" Mycroft appears at his side, taking him by surprise. “Spit it out. You will feel lighter afterwards, little brother " he says with a smile.</p>
<p>That smile, so unusual to be found on his brother's face, captures Sherlock attention. Almost by chance he realizes how the scene has changed around them. They are in a room now. A room that Sherlock knows all too well.</p>
<p>He turns and sees himself standing in front of a large mahogany desk. From the fine leather armchair his father watches him sternly. The elbows resting on the armrests, the fingers of the hands joined at the height of the chest. Standing beside him, a younger Mycroft makes his gaze travel from father to brother. Invisible drops of sweat bead on Mycroft's forehead betray his tension.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Your brother told me that he is worried about you, William &gt;&gt; Sherlock hears him say and would like to run away from what is about to happen. &lt;&lt; Claims you have been using drugs for some time. Cocaine, specifically. He is afraid you have become addicted to it &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; I am not addict of it, I use it &gt;&gt; he  replying. Sherlock feels tenderness for that desperate boy who tries to find the courage to stay there, standing, before that ruthless court that has already condemned him.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Ah &gt;&gt; replies his father. &lt;&lt; What does this mean? &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; It helps me manage my mind. It ... goes too fast &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Too fast &gt;&gt; Mr Holmes repeats seriously. &lt;&lt; So is this what I should explain to those who should ask me the reason about my son's behavior? I should tell them he's not a drug addict, but that he only uses cocaine to stop his mind too fast? &gt;&gt; Mr Holmes thunders, clapping his hands on the desk. The impact creates a gloomy sound, which Sherlock still hears now ringing in his chest.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Yes, because that's the truth &gt;&gt; retorts him, trying to keep the courage alive.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Have you heard, Mycroft? This is the truth &gt;&gt; the father mocks him. Mr Holmes, however, does not find the support of his older son for his laughter. &lt;&lt; I'll tell you what the truth is! &gt;&gt; explodes, standing up, this time, before clapping his hands on the precious wood. &lt;&lt; The truth is that I should have killed you when I had the chance. I would not find myself now having a son who continues to throw mud on my family's good name and who squanders my money by buying drugs to 'stop his mind too fast'! As if the scandal that you and Trevor have been done four years ago was not enough already, &gt;&gt; he adds, beating another blow that vibrates, also in Sherlock's chest. &lt;&lt; From today you will no longer receive anything from me, William, nothing! I think you are perfectly capable of obtaining from you what you need for that scum poison. On the other hand what could I expect from you? You are a whore, just like your mother &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>Sherlock's stomach twitches to the point of making him double in pain. He finds himself on the ground, on all fours, near the cocoon in which his body is hidden. He no longer sees him tremble.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; No! &gt;&gt; Sherlock exclaims, trying to grab the cocoon, but his hands cross him without touching him. &lt;&lt; Oh god no, this no! &gt;&gt; shouts, bringing his hands to his head. &lt;&lt; I don't want to die &gt;&gt; he shouts getting up. &lt;&lt; I don't want to die! &gt;&gt; repeats, looking around the desperate search for someone. In the darkness of this moonless night, however, there are only him and the cocoon.</p>
<p>"Now I recognize you!" Moriarty applauds, appearing behind him. “Too bad it's too late, Sherlock. You were wrong again, my friend. "</p>
<p>You missed the times. As with John. As with your father.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; I am not a whore and neither was she, damned killer! &gt;&gt; Sherlock cried out, exploding the anger of his crazy parent. He found himself chased again by him along the corridors of that old and dismal house. He had managed, however, to escape him that time, to find his way out of the snowy countryside. Thus began his exile, his slow fall in the tunnel of actual addiction.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; No, I've never prostituting miself. Not even when it would have been convenient for me to be &gt;&gt; whispers, staring at the inert cocoon.</p>
<p>"As you said yourself, people only see what they want to see," says Moriarty, shrugging. "For the agents of Scotland Yard you are a freak. For your brother a hopeless case. For your father you were a whore. For me a succulent challenge ...".</p>
<p>“… But only for one you are fantastic. Unbelievable. Astonishing ".</p>
<p>A female voice takes him by surprise. Sherlock turns and finds it coming from a woman he hasn't seen for a long time.</p>
<p>"I don't want you to be stuck with the idea that love can only kill, Sherlock," she says, moving closer to him. A gentle warmth spreads from her. Pleasant and inviting.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; It did it with you, though. It killed you &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>"No, it wasn't love that ended my earthly existence, but pride and that damned sense of honor, my son."</p>
<p>Sherlock reflects on these words. He reflects on how much pride and honor have laid down the law between him and John. The long silences following the quarrels. They do not want to bow their heads, seeking a dialogue, a closeness. It wasn't his 'I love you' that ruined everything and not even John's crazy talk. It was the obstinate silence that followed. Sherlock decided to closing himself in the bathroom and John decided to leaving the apartment. They could have talked about it, although it seemed silly and useless to do it and, instead, they both preferred that passive aggression, the refuge of the cowards.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; I'm sorry &gt;&gt; whispers, melting in tears. Warm tears, which spread a pleasant warmth on his face. Sherlock dries them with his fingers and they too begin to heat up. This good fire that feels slowly spreading within him is intoxicating. &lt;&lt; It's late now &gt;&gt; he says serene, turning his gaze to his mother.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; You're the one who always wrong the times, Sherlock, not him &gt;&gt; she smiles at him. Sherlock looks at her bewildered, unable to understand her words. &lt;&lt; Love does not kill, my son. Love saves &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>Sherlock's mother raises her hand to indicate a distant point. He follows its trajectory and barely perceives the sound of an engine, the clang of chains against the asphalt, the glow of two headlights cleaving the black of the night.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. December 5th</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>December 5th</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Something happens to the entire human machine when we helplessly witness the suffering of a person it loves. Any kind of suffering. From the simplest flu to the most complex of surgical operations. It tries to do the impossible just to see the other return to shine with health and well-being. At the same time, it experience the powerlessness of being unable to do anything but stay there, by the other side, waiting for it to pass. It hopefully that will pass quickly.</p>
<p>When it does a profession that empowers to take care and 'fix' these human machines, everything becomes more difficult. This professionist feels compelled to heal them, to save them. The impotence is even stronger because this professionist have a greater knowledge of what is happening to them. This knowledge on the one hand helps to take care, on the other it is a boulder on the chest for the one who cares of the others.</p>
<p>John knows all this well. If in these four days someone had given him a penny for each sigh, to date he would have put away a fair amount of money. He took care of a lot of Sherlock's scratches and bruises within the intimate walls of their apartment. He would have liked to take care of him personally even here, at the West Cumberland Hospital where Sherlock was urgently transported. Obviously, hospital staff he did not allow it.</p>
<p>John was in shock, in a decidedly altered state of consciousness. Yet he still has the feeling under his hands, which he now closes into a fist. Sherlock's cold body. Frozen. The soft beat of his heart, so difficult to perceive. John had stripped himself of the layers of jackets, sweaters, shirts he was wearing and had held Sherlock close to him, wrapping him in his warm clothes. A body close to frostbite needs the heat of another warm and alive body to recover. At the beginning it seemed to John that he was holding a now cold and rigid corpse in his arms. The lifeless bodies of some of his fellow soldiers, that of his mother, that of his father, had come back to Jonh's minde. He had had to make an effort to think that the cold body he was trying to warm up was alive.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Do not leave me &gt;&gt; John whispered to him like a mantra, holding Sherlock close to him. &lt;&lt; It doesn't matter if you'll never want to see me again, I accept it, but don't leave me. Don't make me live in a world where you are not there, please &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>That was how Mycroft, Hataway and everyone else had found him. John had barely noticed their presence. Di Mycroft, who had approached him, trying in turn to warm his brother's still cold body with his own coat.</p>
<p>So John remained until the arrival of the helicopter, called by Hataway at the same moment when John ran out of the Abbott house. John had resisted those who wanted to take Sherlock out of his arms. He doesn't remember what happend after. Maybe the paramedics  explained him the importance of wrapping Sherlock in warming blankets, loading him on the aircraft and taking him to the hospital as soon as possible.</p>
<p>John also has no memory how he got to West Cumberland Hospital. Just remember that from the moment the aircraft left, Mycroft's hand never lifted off his shoulder.</p>
<p>The first clear memory John has is that of him sitting on this same chair in this room. His hand clenched in that of Sherlock asleep. John's look to move at regular intervals from one monitor to another and then move on the face of his friend, on which there has always been a serene expression after all.</p>
<p>"Who knows where in your Mind Palace you took refuge to seek comfort" John thinks every time he sets his eyes on Sherlock's face. Intimately and completely selfishly, he hopes to have been and still be by his side in that imaginary place. Because he saw the same serene expression on Sherlock's face that Sunday morning and these Holmes repeat all the time that the universe is never so lazy as to produce coincidences.</p>
<p>Mycroft stayed with them in the room for a long time. Sitting on a chair on the other side of the bed, or standing at the bottom of the room. Silent, discreet, Mycroft absent himself every now and then to answer the phone and for longer periods to follow what was happening to Mary Abbott.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; That woman threw my brother into that pit as if it were garbage, Inspector! I demand justice for what my brother had to suffer at the hands of that woman! &gt;&gt; John heard him say in a peremptory tone a few steps from the closed door of the room. Maybe John would also have to fight for justice. The thing that interests him, however, at the moment, is to see Sherlock's eyes open again, his lips to move and his voice to begin to deduce all that his gaze encounters. He wants to make sure that his friend's mean of transport and his brilliant mind are working. Only then John will calm down.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; I do not hide you, gentlemen, that the conditions of Mr. Holmes are not the best &gt;&gt; the colleague who has Sherlock under treatment told them. &lt;&lt; We found morphine residues in the blood and from the coloration of the sclera of the eye and nails it seems that it has been given too much and for too long. Also for this reason the heart rate has still slowed down, despite the body's homeostasis being brought back to normal. This difficulty in waking up is yet another confirmation and that is what worries me most of all. Then, another element not to be underestimated, is the right leg. A fairly simple fracture, in truth, which, however, has been treated very badly. The bone was welded in the worst way, given the incorrect traction to which it was subjected. There are several broken ligaments and muscle tone has significantly decreased. Mr Holmes should be operated to avoid a permanent limp which would compromise the quality of his life. From what you writes on your blog, Dr. Watson, Mr Holmes is athletic, agile, used to running and fighting if necessary. With a leg reduced in that way, he won't be able to do any of this anymore and, unfortunately, until he wakes up and his heart will beat again properly, I can't do anything for him &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>John felt the ground collapse under his feet after those words. Sherlock deprived of the opportunity to move to carry on his work does not even want to imagine it. Sherlock life would be characterized by long days of boredom, depression, black mood. He may return to cocaine use and the propensity to suicide that would result.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Wake up, Sherlock &gt;&gt; John whispers taking Sherlock's hand in his. &lt;&lt; Do you want me to go? It is for that reason that do you insist on staying asleep? I can also do it. Yes, I will do it as soon as your brother returns. Maybe his presence is more pleasing to you than mine, at the moment &gt;&gt; he says realizing himself that he is carrying out a completely senseless reasoning.</p>
<p>The staff of the hospital tried to get him out of that room. They invited him to rest for at least a couple of hours in a real bed, to take a breath of air, to eat something at the hospital canteen. John dismissed all the kind proposals with the usual decisive affirmation: &lt;&lt; This is my place. From here I don't move &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>For four days he hasn't moved and John knows that he won't move even when Mycroft returns. Yes, it could be possible that Sherlock waiting that John isn't in the room to wakes up.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; You are such a drama queen &gt;&gt; he chuckles, placing light kisses on Sherlock's completely inert pale hand.</p>
<p>John carry on that cuddle even when Mycroft returns to the room. He no longer cares about absurd concepts such as decorum, reputation, decency, adequate attitudes and so on.</p>
<p>In turn, his friend's brother no longer even announces himself with that annoying cough. Mycroft must have understood that John would continue to express his love for the consultant even if the queen herself entered that room or the pope whom his mother had so much in consideration.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; That woman &gt;&gt; says Mycroft, ending his silence. John barely sharpens his hearing. &lt;&lt; She had a nervous breakdown, or so they said. She sent three guards to the hospital, one of whom is dying. They managed to contain her only after they shot her with calming bullets &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Did they shoot her calming bullets? The same ones that the hunters use for bear hunting?&gt;&gt; John asks him in amazement. Mycroft merely nods solemnly.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; She was transferred to a prison psychiatric clinic and will stay there until the end of the trial &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; And then for the rest of her days, since they'll find her guilty &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Do you think she isn't? &gt;&gt; Mycroft asks him, approaching the bed.</p>
<p>A snort diverts John from the answer he is about to give. The two men exchange a surprised look and then, on the second puff, they get closer to the consultant.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Sherlock! Oh my God, you're waking up &gt;&gt; exclaims John euphoric, stroking his face with a trembling hand.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Mary ... &gt;&gt; whispers the consultant, leaving them speechless. The two men exchange another look. Neither of them could have imagined that the first word Sherlock would say once awake would be the name of his jailer.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; She is not there, Sherlock &gt;&gt; Mycroft replies, moving the tuft away from his forehead. &lt;&lt; You are safe now &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>Sherlock's eyes struggle to open and John lowers the light to prevent it from bothering him.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Mary &gt;&gt; repeats, while his gaze travels beyond the doctor and brother, as if he were looking for her. &lt;&lt; Where's Mary? &gt;&gt; asks confused.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; She was arrested, Sherlock. She is in prison now, where it is right that she is for what she has done to you and to all the others &gt;&gt; Mycroft explains to him and in a slightly too peremptory way, notes John.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; No! &gt;&gt; mumbles the consultant by moving his arms weakly.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Hey, don't worry what do you want to do? &gt;&gt; John asks him, blocking what looks like a tired attempt to get out of bed.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Mary needs me. I have to help her &gt;&gt; Sherlock replies with a mild but stubborn resistance.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; What are you saying? She held you prisoner. She beat you, segregated in a storage room and thrown away like garbage and would you like to help her? &gt;&gt; asks Mycroft incredulously.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; It is not her fault. She ... oh, leave me alone! &gt;&gt; shouts, rebelling against their hands that insist on holding him down. &lt;&lt; You don't understand anything! &gt;&gt; he exclaims, while the devices around him ring, highlighting an abnormal acceleration of the heartbeat.</p>
<p>The nurses break into the room and invite the doctor and politician to move away and leave the patient in their care. Except that Sherlock seems to become more and more energetic and more and more stubborn from his desire to get out of bed and run to save that woman whose name screams and invokes. Only when John hears about sedatives does he shake and go back to his friend.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; You can't sedate him right now that he's recovered! &gt;&gt; he says stopping the nurse's hand ready to inject the sedative into the IV to which Sherlock is tied.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; If he continues like this, his heart will burst, Dr. Watson. We have to do something &gt;&gt; the nurse try to take him off. John realizes how much the situation is deteriorating, but the idea that Sherlock may fall prey to an induced sleep again scares him. Unfortunately, the nurse is faster than him, that attempt to propose alternative solutions, and injects the sedative into the IV.</p>
<p>The effect is not immediate and perhaps even worse. Sherlock seems to deflate little by little. He mumbles more and more as he loses his strength, remaining hung in the arms of the nurses. John brings his hand to his mouth, shocked by that scene. He cannot believe that that is the same man who left Baker Street. John turns, feeling the need to escape for a moment from what is happening. His eyes rest on the other Holmes. Pale, his forehead pearled with sweat, which he wipes with a handkerchief. John can see how much  misses to Mycroft not having the secure support of his umbrella. In fact, he seems to be about to collapse.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Hey, Myc, are you all right? &gt;&gt; asks him, taking refuge in his instinct as a doctor ready to take care of others.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; No, John &gt;&gt; retorts the man, showing him the smile drawn now more like a grimace of pain. &lt;&lt; I relived in a time too many similar episodes that happened in the past &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; When he was in the recovery community, you mean? &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Yes &gt;&gt; Mycroft answers tiredly, while the nurses leave the room. &lt;&lt; I hoped not to see him reduced in this way again. Instead ... &gt;&gt; he dabs the lips with the handkerchief, without ended the sentence, something completely unusual for someone like him.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; I'm sorry, Mycroft &gt;&gt; says John awkwardly, patting him on the shoulder. Mycroft doesn't even seem to notice. He looks at his brother with such intensity that he frightens the doctor. Although his face is impassive, Mycroft's eyes contains all his despair.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>***</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Stockholm syndrome. John reflects on the fact that, personally, he has never met anyone who was affected by it. Unfortunately people who have been subjected to torture, and which John has been taken care of them in the Afghan field hospital, have passed away.</p>
<p>Three hours have passed since Sherlock's stormy awakening. Hours during which the doctor summoned Mycroft, which allowed John to attend the interview to talk about the possible presence of this syndrome.</p>
<p>John remained silent to listen to his colleague explain in detail his theory on what happened to the troubled mind of Sherlock. John and Mycroft just exchanged two looks and there was no need to even explain to the doctor how deep the hole he made in the water was.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; But what Stockholm syndrome! &gt;&gt; he blurted out once they got out of that doctor's office, outside the hospital, one spitting sentences and the other lighting a cigarette. &lt;&lt; I think that if your brother started screaming the name of his jailer, reiterating how much she needs his help, there must be a good reason behind &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Just the hallucinations of a junkie, John &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>Mycroft's judgment has chilled him. John stood with his mouth open to watch Mycroft take a long drag on his cigarette.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; When Sherlock was hospitalized to dispose of the effects of cocaine addiction, he often saw his dog sitting at the bottom of the bed. At other times he ran away screaming in terror that a man intent on killing him was chasing him. There have been occasions when he attacked the nurses by calling them by the names of his former schoolmates who apparently bullied him. Once he hit me too ... &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>Mycroft stopped, shook his head and started smoking again without concluding the sentence. For the second time in a few hours.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; I can't think that's just why, Mycroft &gt;&gt; tried to insist John. &lt;&lt; You are talking about a boy prey to the fumes of abstinence. It has nothing to do with what we have witnessed before &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; What should I think then, John? That your distinguished colleague is right and that my brother has joined forces with the woman that tortured him? Honestly, I prefer him prey of hallucinations &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>John sighs. He has Sherlock's hand clasped in his again, John hopes again that  Sherlock will wake up early. Yes, because he wants to be able to talk to him, try to contain him, if necessary, and ask him to explain the reason for his words.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; You reacted like this because in reality it wasn't that woman who killed all those people, didn't you? &gt;&gt; John whispers, holding the back of Sherlock's hand very close to his lips. Mary's eyes. The sudden way in which they changed after that moment of freezing. John reminds them well. &lt;&lt; If your desire to help her is so strong, there must be a reason that goes beyond the banal Stockholm syndrome. You fight for justice to be done and evidently she is not the culprit to be executed &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>From the moment John grabbed the Sherlock's phone number reports, just sent by Mycroft, that investigation passed to him ex officio, one might say. John was investigating the disappearance of the consulting detective and now he inherited the case he was working on. Mary Abbott is linked to this case and Sherlock seems to have her at heart, for a reason that is not known and that, at this moment, is not even important.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Ok, Sherlock, the case is still open. You are out of the game. It's up to me to come into the game for you &gt;&gt; John says, straightening his back. &lt;&lt; I hate injustice as much as you and, although that woman treated you in a way that I can't forgive her, it's not fair that she pay for the crimes she didn't commit &gt;&gt;</p>
<p>John decides to leave Sherlock's hand and leave that room after days sitting by his side. He caresses Sherlock's face, barely beaded with sweat. John remains hesitant to look at Sherlock's lips, eager to place his own on them and kiss him.</p>
<p>"No. I don't want to steal anything else from you". Without looking back, John reaches the door and leaves the room.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0014"><h2>14. December 6th</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>December 6th</p>
<p> </p>
<p>John walks slowly down the corridor. His footsteps resound and reverberate, announcing his presence brazenly. The noise annoys him. He would like to take off his shoes and go barefoot, but he does not believe it is the best thing to present himself in front of a murderess, wearing only socks.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Are you sure you want to go there? &gt;&gt; Hataway asked him, twisting his nose. Penitentiary asylums do not have an excellent reputation and certainly John would have spared the trip. However, he had to get rid of a doubt, even if he is now so nervous that it escapes him.</p>
<p>John had kept those documents in his hands. Simple lined notebooks with hard cover. Its had seemed innocuously packed with the data of a first note. Only when John had brought attention to what had been noted in it, did he even feel like breathing.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; December 10, 1999. Reginald Connery. 38 years old. Unmarried. No living relative. Exposed fracture of tibia and fibula. Withdraw £ 20,000 from his checking account and 4 well-listed stocks. Settled on December 30, 1999 &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>There were many similar notes. Names of men and women who have had the misfortune of finding themselves caught by an accident on those mountains and rescued by the wrong people.</p>
<p>Only those who had no one who could report their disappearance were 'liquidated', as Mrs Abbott diligently noted. It upsets to realize how many lonely people there are in the world. Yes, because that macabre activity seemed to have started in the 90s of the last century and since then had caused the death of 35 people. For none of these, the disappearance had been reported.</p>
<p>There were also other registers, those on which the hospitalizations of locals and foreigners were noted, who, however, had someone waiting for them. Ms. Abbott had noted the 'kind donations', as she called them, of these people. Hataway had contacted some of them, who had only had words of gratitude for 'that family so kind that took care of me, saving my life'.</p>
<p>Different points of view, of course, that made the difference between the family of benefactors and that of mad assassins. Ruthless killers who had no problem throwing a man still alive, even if exhausted, into a pit, letting the cold, hunger and hardships put an end to his existence.</p>
<p>John arrives in front of the indicated door. From the porthole takes a look into the interior of a large room where there are several women. Some sitting around tables, others standing talking in groups, others alone. Mary stands tall and powerful among all the others. She wears the blue uniform given by the structure and that is decidedly narrow and short of sleeves and legs for her.</p>
<p>John rings the door and a guard appears in the porthole, glares at him and opens the door.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; I am Dr. Watson, I have been authorized by Inspector Hataway to meet the detainee Mary Abbott &gt;&gt; John introduce himself, showing the sheet handed to him by the skeptical detective. The guard checks the document meticulously and then activating the intercom summons Mary to room number 5.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Have a seat here, please &gt;&gt; says the guard, pointing to a door with the same number on his right. The doctor enters this room four by four with gray and bare walls. A square table is placed in the exact center with a very simple chair on each side.</p>
<p>"This place creeps almost worse than Mary's house," thinks John who suddenly lacks air.</p>
<p>Entering the Abbott house the second time had been paradoxically more disturbing than the first. That first time John was driven by the desire to save Sherlock and the belief that he was there. Of course, John had noticed the detail of the excessive cleanliness, the manic order and the ghostly void . Yesterday, when he returned to carry out the investigations started by Sherlock, John asked himself how someone could live alone in such a place and not go crazy.</p>
<p>The documents were in what was that woman's bedroom. A room that does not have to be very different from the one where Mary are sleeping now. A simple bed, a small wardrobe, an old desk, few personal effects, few clothes and all worn and many years old. Mary Abbott gives the idea of never having had anything. Nothing except five dolls. The dolls stood next to each other on the window sill. Porcelain dolls with ancient and well-worked clothes, with glazed eyes, pink cheeks and heart-shaped lips. Needless to say, they contributed to making the environment even more disturbing. These dolls must have been Mary's companions in those long days spent isolated from all sentient life. John's heart had tightened and he hadn't understood how he could feel tenderness and pain for the woman who almost killed the man he loves.</p>
<p>"You taught me something new Sherlock, yet another!" John thinks, sighing, now that the door before him opens and Mary Abbott enters, accompanied by another guard.</p>
<p>She looks at him for a long time, hiser face expressionless and her large arms firm at her sides.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Sit down! &gt;&gt; the guard orders her, pointing to the chair, before going to the wall she leans against. Mary does not carry out the order. She approaches the chair but remains standing, hrt eyes fixed on John.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Good morning, Mary, I'm John Watson. We met in front of Jo's shop a few days ago, I don't know if you remember me &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>The woman just narrowed her eyes as if she wanted to focus it better.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; The flatmate &gt;&gt; she says.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Yes, I'm Sherlock Holmes's flatmate. I am here because I want to talk to you about the investigation that Sherlock was carrying out and that has passed on to me, at least until he is able to take it back. What do you say we sit down? &gt;&gt; John proposes by moving the chair. The woman imitates him and sits down immediately after him.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; I was at his house yesterday &gt;&gt; says John, choosing the words well. He doesn't want to give her a chance to get up and risk being punished by the guard, who doesn't take her stern gaze off her.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Why? &gt;&gt; she asks and no expression is drawn on her face.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Sherlock woke up shouting that he had to save you and that you needed his help. I learned, by working with him, that all the decisions he makes and the ideas that jump to his head make sense. If Sherlock said that you need his help, then he must have good reasons and I found out what these reasons are &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>John did not expect to see Mary jump for joy at the idea of being pulled out of there. In fact, he had expected that she would not react, as she is not reacting now. John doesn't even know what that woman could have understood about the situation that has emerged around her and to her detriment.</p>
<p>She doesn't have a lawyer, for example, nor did she obviously ask for it. The one assigned ex officio will only arrive in three days, God only knows why. On balance, anything could really happen to her amid the general indifference of those around her.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Who tells us that it was not she who threatened the parents by forcing them to kill those people? &gt;&gt; Hataway retorted, when John presented him with the registers found, making him aware of how the parents and brothers had started the long series of murders. If even the chief inspector of the small district of her country is against her, pointing to her as the only person responsible for the facts, what possibilities a woman like this can have to obtain the right punishment?</p>
<p>"Luckily you met Sherlock on your way" John thinks, realizing how absurd is what he's thinking.</p>
<p>John puts on the table one of the register he brought away from her home, which seems to cause a slight reaction in Mary. In fact, she opens her eyes wide and moves slightly back. The guard, on the other hand, comes forward slightly.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; This register was written by your mother &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Yes &gt;&gt; she answers immediately, her gaze fixed on the notebook. &lt;&lt; Why did you get it? &gt;&gt; asks him.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; To save you, Mary &gt;&gt; tries to explain John, but the woman looks at him confused. &lt;&lt; They want to accuse you for killing all those people &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; All those people &gt;&gt; she repeats tonelessly, returning expressionless.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Yes. I know, instead, that it wasn't you. You were too young when the murders started. You can't have taken part in it &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>The woman remains silent for a long moment. Then her gaze changes. The eyes seem to veil and remain motionless, totally motionless, as if not even breathing. Finally Mary shakes herself and John sees the eyes of the little girl, who revealed where 'the other' had brought Sherlock.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; How's Edward doing? &gt;&gt; asks him, leaning towards him, a note of tears in her voice.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Edward ... &gt;&gt; repeats John, who takes a moment to remember that his friend was working incognito. &lt;&lt; He is fine &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Oh thank you! &gt;&gt; exclaims Mary making the sign of the cross. She bring her hands to her face and large, slow tears begin to drop. &lt;&lt; The blanket saved him. It was her, wasn't it? &gt;&gt; she asks hopefully.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Yes. It served, yes &gt;&gt; John mind, reluctant to destroy the hope of that creature.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; I knew I did well to convince her! &gt;&gt; she exclaims, clapping her hands against each other. &lt;&lt; Molly is with him now? &gt;&gt; she asks and John expected everything except that she talking about the Bart's pathologist.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Molly? &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Yes, Molly, his fiancée! Edward understood that 'the other' wanted to kill him. He understands everything, looks like a magician! &gt;&gt; informs him amazed. &lt;&lt; Edward had said that Molly would find someone else capable of loving her more than he did, but I didn't find him right. Molly would have cried a lot and I didn't want her to cry. Women cry a lot, I always see them on television. So I tried to save him for Molly &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; You saved him for Molly &gt;&gt; repeats John, who struggles not to laugh hysterically.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Yes. They love each other so much. Since two years. But you're Edward's flatmate so you know it. Molly is not like Johanna's shit &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Johanna? &gt;&gt; John repeats, confused by that salad of words without sense.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Oh, yes, maybe you weren't still there when Johanna was there. She treated Edward sooo badly &gt;&gt;. Mary approaches him, looking sideways at the guard, and brings hier hand close to her mouth. &lt;&lt; She used him only for sex &gt;&gt; she whispers, confiding a very important secret.</p>
<p>John feels his viscera squirm and a strong sense of nausea rise up his throat. A part of himself tries to reject the understanding that is reaching him of the words of this woman.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; 'The other' thought that you and Edward were together. She hit a lot him the first day &gt;&gt; she confesses sadly, confirming John's intuition. Johanna is none other than him. Sherlock had to change his name in a female name to be able to tell her how John used him. Why Sherlock let himself go to such confidences John does not understand it. Maybe Mary threatened him in some way, or ... or, more simply, in the absurdity of what Sherlock was experiencing, he felt the need to let off steam with someone. Of course Sherlock is not the type of person that tell his own business around, but John himself is realizing how sweet, welcoming and protective this version of Mary is. And he realizes, too, how she has become infatuated with the consulting detective, to the point of hating with all her might the woman who dared to harm him.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Mary ... do you realize you are in trouble? &gt;&gt; John asks her direct and the woman shrugs.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; I just wanted  to stop them &gt;&gt; she whispers, becoming small small. &lt;&lt; I took care of those who then let go. Dad didn't want me to get close to the others. He said that I'm so stupid that I could get them into trouble. When dad fell down the stairs and died I thought it would all be over. That we would not have all those people anymore at home and would not even throw the lonely ones away in the pit anymore. Instead, Freddie found another one and mom told him they could do it. He was a very kind old man. I wanted to take him secretly to Mr Inspector, but when Oliver discovered me they hit me a lot, all four, and mom was there to watch. Then they closed me in the storage room and I thought that also I was going to die in  there. I was always afraid that they would lead me to that pit too &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>John'a abdomen is contracted. What this Mary-child telling him in tears it is terrible. He turns his gaze to the guard, looking for support, but finds only a grim and disinterested look in that woman. The doctor realizes how serious the situation is. More serious than he imagined.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Why did you bring Sher ... Edward to the pit, Mary? &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; I didn't bring it! &gt;&gt; she exclaims, planting huge hands on the table. &lt;&lt; No, I never would have. It was her. She is so much stronger than me, and she closes me in the storage room for a long time &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>John sighs and places his small hands on hers.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Contacts are not allowed! &gt;&gt; exclaims the guard. John look at her in anger. However, he does not want to put Mary in trouble, who looks frightened at the severe woman who is depriving her of this simple gesture of consolation.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Mary, I will do everything possible to help you, but they will indict you anyway for killing your brothers and your mother &gt;&gt; he says and Mary burst into tears. She rub her eyes before hiding her face with her hands.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; My dad, my mom and my brothers was the bad guy, not me. Why everyone indict me? They always indict on me. They made me do so many tests, so many injections and they said, all those doctors, that my head is not well. No one, however, came to mind that maybe the crazy one is not me. That they who killed people were more so than me. I'm stupid, yes, but I'm not crazy and I'm not a murderer! &gt;&gt; she exclaims firmly.</p>
<p>John doesn't know what to argue. It is a delicate situation that should be handled delicately. But just looking around to understand that there is no room for delicacy within those walls. The staff of this medical prison will stuff Mary with drugs and let her die slowly. John realizes that, even by setting in motion all the knowledge that both he and Sherlock can have and by paying the best lawyers, the situation will not be different from that. Even if they'll managed to make Mary accuse of the only murders of family members.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; I'm sorry, Mary &gt;&gt; John says. The woman smiles and slowly shakes her head.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; It doesn't matter &gt;&gt; she whispers, shrugging. &lt;&lt; The important thing is that Edward is alive. That he can marry Molly and have many beautiful children. It's a happy ending. They move me so much &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>John smiles and a few tears escape his control. A happy ending, already. A happy ending for a non-existent story built ad hoc for the upset mind of a single woman. A lie that would be cruel to take her away.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>***</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Sherlock opens his eyes slowly. The light in the room hurts his eyes. He twists his nose by puffing. His disapproval does not go unnoticed and the lights are dimmed. Encouraged by the twilight, Sherlock opens his eyelids and meets his brother, sitting on the chair beside him.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; You are finally awake &gt;&gt; Mycroft says and his lips stretch out to draw a smile. It is strange. If Mycroft smiles at him, it means that he saw him really bad.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; How long did I sleep? &gt;&gt; he asks him, feeling his mouth kneaded and his voice so different.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Quite &gt;&gt; the brother replies, bringing a glass of fresh water to Sherlock's lips, from which he takes a few sips.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; That stuff had to be badly cut &gt;&gt; Sherlock mumbles, passing a hand that feels very heavy on the face.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Where do you think you are, Sherlock? &gt;&gt; Mycroft asks, taking him by surprise. Sherlock looks at him more carefully and then turns his gaze to the room. Suddenly the memory of what he has experienced explodes in the mind's eyes.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Mary! &gt;&gt; exclaims sitting down too quickly. A dizziness forces him to go back down. &lt;&lt; Jesus, for a moment I thought I had just recovered from an overdose &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; From an overdose, no. From a withdrawal symptoms, yes &gt;&gt; points out his brother, by offering him more water.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Morphine &gt;&gt; Sherlock says between his teeth, swallowing the refreshing sip. &lt;&lt; I didn't want to take it, but I had to be lucid. The leg gave me significant problems. To be honest, he still gives me now &gt;&gt; he says, bringing his hand to his right thigh where, beyond the knee, he feels a dull pain rising.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; The doctor is just waiting for you to fully recover from the morphine to operate and to fix the fracture &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Is it necessary? &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; No, if you want to be lame for the rest of your days &gt;&gt; Mycroft replies. Sherlock at first turns up his nose then, however, lets himself go to a fat laugh.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; No, thank you, I don't want to go around with a stick like John &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>He stops and his gaze rests on the empty chair on the other side of the bed.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; He remained at your side from the moment he rescued you until yesterday &gt;&gt; Mycroft informs him. &lt;&lt; After you woke up and invoked the name of your jailer, citing the will to run to her aid, John left this room, saying he had to conclude the investigation that you had opened concerning the pit. He kept saying that if you said you wanted to help her there must be a more than valid reason &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; There is, in fact &gt;&gt; reiterates Sherlock. &lt;&lt; Mary didn't kill all those people. She executed only the brothers and the mother &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; That woman would have killed you too, if John had not been with the breath on that absurd inspector's neck first and then determined to reach the pit after that woman said she threw you inside &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Not her. It wouldn't have been she who killed me &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Yes, in fact it could say that it would have been the cold that killed you. That the job would have been made easier by the fact that you were naked, wrapped in a simple blanket, is only a negligible detail &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>Sherlock laughs heartily again. The saliva goes through him making him cough and Mycroft, annoyed by his attitude, in truth, offers him more water.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Why do you want to help that woman, Sherlock? &gt;&gt; Mycroft asks him, who is really struggling to understand it.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Because she risks suffering yet another injustice &gt;&gt; he replies seriously. &lt;&lt; Mary ended the life of five killers. They should give her a medal &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; She was going to kill you too, little brother &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; I already told you that it wouldn't be her who killed me. Mary-child could not do it &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Are you listening to yourself? 'Mary-child' &gt;&gt; Mycroft repeats in amazement. &lt;&lt; It doesn't matter if a single personality of that woman wanted to kill you. The action was brought by her, regardless of which personality governed her actions &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; So is it right to condemn the innocent personality for what the killer did? &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; But ... it doesn't make sense &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Of corse, it doesn't make sense! &gt;&gt; Sherlock exclaims. &lt;&lt; ‘Acting under an altered state of consciousness’, this formula is a mitigating factor, even for the most heinous of the murders. It matters little if the person has a consciousness altered by a drug, alcohol or schizophrenia &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; She will be sentenced anyway &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Of course, she has committed murders and has to pay, but one thing is to have killed five people, guilty of murdering 35 and used all kinds of violence against her, another to be accused of the complete package, Mycroft! &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>The ice man sighs and shakes his head resignedly.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; I only know that she threw you away like I was garbage. I know I could be in a morgue to recognize your lifeless body, right now, rather than here &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Are you trying to tell me that my death would make you suffer? &gt;&gt; Sherlock chuckles in an attempt to break the embarrassment caused by the words of his brother.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Yes &gt;&gt; he replies seriously. &lt;&lt; I have always tried to protect you and this time I was so stupid that I didn't immediately see how delicate the situation was. I thought you went away to spite John and instead ... &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Now you're the one who says things that don't make sense! &gt;&gt; he exclaims annoyed. &lt;&lt; I go away to spite John &gt;&gt; repeats teasing. &lt;&lt; I am certainly not the one who made 'spite' &gt;&gt; he points out, by crossing his arms over his chest.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Are you planning to cut it out of your life? &gt;&gt; Mycroft asks him directly. Sherlock sighs. He realizes that the time has come to really face what happened and above all what he feels. He walked around it in the days spent segregated in that house and even while he was there to freeze in that pit. Now he can no longer remain in the safe place which is his Mind Palace.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Do you remember what dad said to me the night I ran away from home? &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; All too well &gt;&gt; sighs Mycroft, who seems to want to remember everything but that.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; I never asked you if you think like him about it &gt;&gt; he asks him just by glancing at him. Sherlock discovers he can't handle his brother's gaze right now.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; About prostitution, you mean? &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; You know what I mean &gt;&gt; he replies, annoyed by his having to specify the obvious.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; I know that you are not what dad said you were. That you never did sex in order to earn something &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; You seem very convinced of this &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; I am, yes. Our father was ... was ... &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; A crazy killer &gt;&gt; Sherlock concludes, looking him in the eyes. Mycroft holds his gaze, then takes a sigh and turns him away.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Yes &gt;&gt; nods, leaving him speechless. Although he has never openly woven the praises of his father, Mycroft has always take care about the Holmes' good name. Sherlock doesn't expected that admission.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Even Mary's father was. And the brothers and the mother. Part of her became infected with it and developed that violent and murderous personality. I wondered if I also have something like this somewhere and I found it, you know? &gt;&gt; he says holding the blanket with his hand. &lt;&lt; Moriarty has often appeared in my thoughts. He spoke to me, urged me to kill her to save me. There were moments when I thought of following his advice and if I didn't, it was only because John's voice helped me to give up &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Are you talking about voices, little brother? &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; I'm not crazy, Mycroft. You know how a Mind Palace works. Even you came to my aid. You spurred me to relive that scene. That terrible moment when I had to run away from our father for the second time &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>Mycroft lays his warm, dry hand on Sherlock's convulsive hand clutching the sheet.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; For a long time I asked myself when the moment would come when you would relive the traumas of your childhood and youth. You had to run into an unfortunate and crazy woman to do it &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Apparently &gt;&gt;. Sherlock lets go of the blanket and shakes his brother's hand. &lt;&lt; You have always been at my side every awakening from those frightening journeys that I made in the abysses of my unconscious &gt;&gt; smiles at him, seeing him blush just on the pale cheeks.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; This time I haven't been alone &gt;&gt; Mycroft says, looking at the empty chair. &lt;&lt; I didn't really want to consider the possibility that you had disappeared. I couldn't believe there was something so crazy behind it. John, however, has not thought about it even for a moment. He remained clinging to the belief that you were alive, always &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Why do you tell me about him? &gt;&gt; asks him annoyed.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Because he's wrong, it's true. He has committed an ignoble lightness, but he sincerely cares about you, Sherlock &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; It's convenient for you that I have a caregiver&gt;&gt; Sherlock says, moving away from his hand.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Sherlock &gt;&gt; insists the brother, catching his hand . &lt;&lt; Is it possible that you didn't understand what the man you fell in love with is made of? &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>Once again Sherlock is speechless. A hot flash feels exploding in his face. Imagines that he is blushing like a schoolgirl, which irritates him even more.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; He treated me like a whore, Mycroft. You can not even imagine how it feels &gt;&gt; he whispers, the voice broken by tears that strives to tame.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; He tried to protect you instead. John knows how disastrous he is in relationships and, in order to avoid hurting you in the future, he preferred to end it in the bud &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Shut up! &gt;&gt; Sherlock exclaims and the heart rate monitor starts playing. &lt;&lt; What do you want to know about how relationships work? You have done nothing but encourage me to stay away from any form of emotional and physical involvement with anyone! I don't accept lessons of any kind from you on this kind of thing &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>The door opens and John enters the room, out of breath and worried.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Hey, what's going on? &gt;&gt; he asks, moving close to Sherlock. John looks at the heart rate monitor and takes Sherlock's pulse.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; We were just talking &gt;&gt; Mycroft replies.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Sherlock must not be altered at all, Myc. I don't want the nurse to inject to him other sedative into his veins. Not now that he has finally woken up &gt;&gt; John says, smiling at him.</p>
<p>Sherlock looks away from his and, decisively, frees the wrist from his grasp.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; I'm fine &gt;&gt; he says.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; I'm happy to this &gt;&gt; John replies.</p>
<p>They remain silent. A silence full of embarrassing tension. The heart rate monitor reveals how strong Sherlock's heart beats and he would like to tear the electrodes from his chest. He can't stand feeling so naked, not in front of John and even his brother.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; I met Mary &gt;&gt; the doctor tells him regaining his attention. &lt;&lt; I thought that there was a logical sense if you woult like to have to help her. I went to her house yesterday and I found many notebooks like this &gt;&gt; he says, handing one of the documents to Sherlock. The latter sits up and leafs through the notebook.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Yes, Mary had shown them to me. The day before that 'the other' took me to the pit. I had already understood that she had nothing to do with the other murders. These have given me proof &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Yes &gt;&gt; John nods. &lt;&lt; She are not the serial killer. I don't know, however, how much the murder of the brothers and the mother will be able to change her punishment &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Mary didn't kill them. She executed them &gt;&gt; Sherlock points out.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; How do you think this can make a difference in the eyes of a judge? &gt;&gt; Mycroft asks him, leafing through the register. &lt;&lt; If there is a law, it is to prevent that everyone could make justice from being done alone, little brother &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; I know it well, brother &gt;&gt; Sherlock replies angrily. &lt;&lt; Mary, however, had no other way but to do herself justice. Hataway would not have believed her and asking for her help would only have led her to be thrown into the pit for having risked ruining family affairs. That madman of his older brother, Freddie, did nothing but threaten her by saying this &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; The fact remains that she tried to kill you too, proving to be a potential danger and to have been able to take part in some of the murders perpetrated by his family &gt;&gt; Mycroft replies ruthlessly.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; No, she would never have done it! &gt;&gt; Sherlock exclaims and the heart rate monitor rings again. &lt;&lt; I was the first person who rescued after she eliminated the family. It is impossible to think that Mary has not introjected part of the behaviors that she has seen implemented throughout their lives. These took shape in this cruel personality, made of prejudices and violent behavior, the same that she suffered. Mary is constantly struggling with this part. We spent long days together, she and I, without the evil-Mary showing up. We had found a sort of balance and I am sure that if there hadn't been a storm to prevent it, Mary would have brought me to Hataway &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; So why didn't she say anything, when he met the inspector, John and Greg at the store? &gt;&gt; asks Mycroft, who doesn't seem to want to know to give up his ideas.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Because I lied to her &gt;&gt; retorts Sherlock. &lt;&lt; I was wrong to lie to her. I should have told her immediately who I am &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; She would have killed you immediately &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; No, Mycroft. Mary would have brought him to Hataway as soon as possible &gt;&gt; John intrudes. &lt;&lt; Her family killed people who were alone. If Sherlock had told her that he had been sent there for an investigation, she would not even have tried to rob and kill him, as his family used to do. Finding herself teased has infuriated her &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Yeah &gt;&gt; Sherlock nods. &lt;&lt; And the fury made her lose sight of the danger in which she would have put herself if she killed me. Mary was unable to make 'the other' the reason. Her bad part is pure madness &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Is this what you will do then? &gt;&gt; Mycroft asks him. &lt;&lt; Do you take the blame for what she did, saying you was wrong to lie to her? &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; If this will serve to ease Mary penalty I'm ready to do it &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; It is absurd &gt;&gt; Mycroft shakes his head in disbelief. &lt;&lt; It is better that I go and tell the doctor about your awakening and ask him when he is going to operate your leg. If I stay here a minute longer I know that that machine will start playing again &gt;&gt; he says getting up from his chair.</p>
<p>Sherlock and John watch him go and when the door closes behind Mycroft they find themselves in a silence full of tension.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Do you really think that you will be able to help her &gt;&gt; John asks, breaking the silence.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; I want to at least try &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; I just thought it would be better if he did not find out that you also lied about Molly &gt;&gt; John says, bringing to Sherlock's mind that detail that has so easily forgotten. &lt;&lt; She is really happy to have saved you and imagines you now with Molly at your side, ready to get married. This happy ending was created by Mary and it would be bad to ruin it &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>Sherlock shakes his head and runs his hand over his face.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; That absurd story! &gt;&gt; exclaims shaking his head.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; You had to invent it to avoid that she killing you &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Yes &gt;&gt; he admits. &lt;&lt; Evil-Mary is a convinced homophobic and very aggressive. I think I should thank Molly. It is only thanks to her that I won the attentions of Mary-child &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Oh, I think knowing that you told someone that you are engaged and about to get married with her would make her really happy, yes &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Oh, please! &gt;&gt; exclaims Sherlock, rolling his eyes.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; That Johanna, instead ... &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>Sherlock feels the body covered by a thousand pins that sting him at the same time. He just glances at John and then looks away.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Mary ... she told you about ... &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Me, yes &gt;&gt; concludes John. &lt;&lt; Obviously she did not know that I was, in reality, the shrew who used you only for sex. I think if she had found out that I am Jahanna...I would not have come out alive from that asylum &gt;&gt; John says.</p>
<p>Their eyes meet and John immediately returns serious. He coughs a little and straightens his back.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; I was an asshole, Sherlock &gt;&gt; he whispers. &lt;&lt; I ... I could go back I wouldn't say anything. Not even one of the absurd words I said on Sunday morning. I ... I kicked the best thing that ever happened to me and I'm sorry. I'd like to ask you to forgive me and give me a second chance, but ... Jesus, I wouldn't give it to myself. I was afraid of losing you. It was very bad &gt;&gt; he says, sobs. &lt;&lt; I'm happy to know you are alive and ... that's enough for me &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>Silence falls over the doctor's whispered words. Sherlock doesn't know what to argue. He doesn't know whether to argue.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; You solved the case. Why? &gt;&gt; asks him, by moving the topic to something more comfortable for him.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Because I saw you so convinced in your desire to help that woman. I found it strange, but I thought you had to have your good reasons &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Yes, I have them &gt;&gt; he replies decidedly. &lt;&lt; Why did you allow your friends to take me to the pub? Why, if you knew that they would end up making me drink and embarrass me? That Bryan ... I had his hands all over, but you didn't lift a finger. How can I think that you care about me, that it wasn't really an adventure driven by alcohol? &gt;&gt; Sherlock says all in one breath, now feeling the urgent need for clarification. John moistens his lips and shifts the weight from one foot to the other, nervous.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; I ... I liked the idea of having you with me in a situation that did not involve investigations and murders. To be together like two friends in a pub over a beer. Every time I tried to get you involved in one of the usual outings with Greg there was no way to convince you. I saw that Bryan was exaggerating, but I couldn't stop him. It bothered me to see how him was on you and in the end I dragged you away because I had enough. I realized too late that I had made a terrible mistake. I haven't protected you, I realize it, and I have no excuses. Even for having… for not stopping while knowing you are drunk I have no excuse &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; No, you have none &gt;&gt; Sherlock confirm, seeing John's head bend over even more. &lt;&lt; I ... I felt used &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; It wasn't my intention &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; So why did you tell me those things? &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Because I was afraid &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Of what? &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; About you &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>Sherlock is speechless. He had already considered in his Mind Palace that possibility, also mentioned by Mycroft. Hearing it, however, put into words by John himself is quite another thing.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; I didn't have to tell you ... what I said. I realize I was wrong &gt;&gt; John says, taking on his part of responsibility.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Is that what you feel? &gt;&gt; John asks Sherlock, making him blush. Sherlock just nods looking away.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; It's ... it's the same for me, Sherlock &gt;&gt; confesses John in one breath. &lt;&lt; I realize that it may not be worth anything, not after what I said. Sounds like an attempt to save myself in extremis, but it's not like that. Look at me, Sherlock &gt;&gt; John says, opening his arms before dropping them at his sides. &lt;&lt; I am this. Lame, bruised, fat and idiot. You, on the other hand &gt;&gt;, sigh, &lt;&lt; you are brilliant, beautiful and athletic. Saturday night it was as if I had taken something that is not for me. Something I don't deserve. I saw you so happy and I was afraid of being able to send everything to hell, because I have never had an important relationship and, wow, you are important. Then I destroyed everything right away. Maybe it is easier for me to make myself despised, as it is for you to accept teasing and criticism rather than compliments &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>Sherlock is struck by this last sentence. A different perspective which he had not yet taken into consideration opens up before him. He now understands what his mother meant by those simple words. "Love saves", she said, and now Sherlock seems to understand that the first thing from that save is by themselves. From the distorted idea that you have of yourself. From the beginning, John has shown enthusiasm in front of Sherlock's deductions, giving him the opportunity to appreciate them himself in a genuine and not ostentatious way in defense of the negative judgment of others. Now the doctor has told him how unattractive and idiotic he think to be, which is light years away from what he really is. Sherlock knows about John self-esteem problems, but that they were so marked he hadn't understood.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; John ... &gt;&gt; Sherlock says, meeting the sad look of his doctor. &lt;&lt; Mycroft told me that I will have to undergo an operation on my leg to avoid being lame. It will not be beautiful at all and I will have to do a long rehabilitation. I do not want at all that Mycroft is by my side. He would only emphasize how little goodwill I would take. You are a doctor and then ... well, even if it was psychosomatic, you were lame. I think I will need your help, if you like &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Of course I want, Sherlock &gt;&gt; John smiles at him, hesitantly taking his hand. &lt;&lt; I want to take care of you. I have been trying to do this since the day I met you. I thank you for this opportunity &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>The warmth of his hand is so pleasant. Sherlock feels his own hands, always cold, warming up pleasantly. After all, an opportunity is offered to everyone. Greg had offered it to him, helping him to get out of cocaine addiction and to structure his method. He wants to try to offer it to Mary who almost killed him. Sherlock can therefore offer it to John too, although he has wounded him. John that he did everything he could to save him and that he did it once again.</p>
<p>Sherlock smiles at him. He doesn't know what will happen, but he feels he is doing the right thing.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0015"><h2>15. December 26th</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>December 26th</p>
<p> </p>
<p>John shakes hands in one another. Curl his nose several times, while shifting weight from one foot to the other. They did not expect anything like this. Indeed, things seemed to be taking a positive turn for Mary. In particular, John did not expect to witness what is happening and that leaves him stone, unable to say and do anything.</p>
<p>He tries several times to start a conversation, but every attempt dies on his lips. The pain of Sherlock is so contained but at the same time desperate. He is holding the letter Mary wrote to him, dedicating her last thoughts to him. A writing as a small child, full of grammatical errors to make the skin crawl and a sincere love to tighten the heart.</p>
<p>It is destabilizing for anyone to be torn from their safe place, from their habits, from things that can be said to be their own. If someone have ailments like Mary's it is not only destabilizing but destructive. She found herself again in a cold place, surrounded by people ready to treat her badly and she was unable to cope. Even though Sherlock and John had finally managed to find a lawyer who is well disposed towards her. Even if the jury had understood the situation, despite the prejudices and fear before that big woman. The verdict had arrived and had seen her doomed, yes, but for the murder of family members and found her innocent for everyone else. Mary had achieved significant extenuating circumstances and would soon be moved to a better managed shelter than the one in which she was staying. Of the one in which she decided to end her life.</p>
<p>Sherlock wipes the silent tears that line his face and places the letter on the table in front of the sofa on which he is sitting. He takes the violin and starts playing a cheerful, Irish ballad. It is the first time that John hears him play something like this and that must certainly be tied to Mary.</p>
<p>John approaches him, coming out of his stillness, and picks up the letter he can't help reread.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>"Dear Sherlock</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>(even if for me you are Edward and as a name I also like it more).</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>I am writing to you even if I cannot do it well because I want to apologize for what I do.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Here they are bad with me and always tell me that I am not doing well.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>I have so many voices in my head that tell me I'm not doing well.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>I'm scared Eddy.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Always scared at all times.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>They scream at me, push me for everything.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>They are worse than my brothers, my mom, even dad.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>You tell me, when you come here, to be patient that things change and you also explained when and how, but I can't do it.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>When you leave everything is ugly and you stay always so little.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>I miss my dolls, my animals and I miss being with you in the room to hear you play the violin and sing Molly Malone.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>I know that in a different and more protected place as you say, things will not go well because it is I who do not go well.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>If I hadn't been born stupid and if I wasn't so big then maybe they would be fine.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>But I can't run away from myself even though I would love to.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>You told me you were sorry that I couldn't kill all the killers.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>I found the way and I do it because I can't stand her anymore.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>She hurts so much and I'm always afraid that she can hurt others too.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>I know you don't forget me and this makes me happy.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Grandpa said that we live in people's memories and therefore I know that I will be alive.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Take care of Molly and love her so much</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>(although I understood that she is not called that.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>I'm not mad at you though.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>I know how scared 'the other' is and how much she beat you up for your flatmate.)</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>People must be loved otherwise they die.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>I tried to love you and you're alive because I gave you the blanket.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>I'm a little afraid, but I think it's normal.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>I made a tight knot and the beam is strong and I think it holds me.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>I'm glad I met you, Eddy "</em>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>Sherlock finishes the piece and John in turn wipes some tears that have escaped from his eyes. John hears him sigh as he puts the violin on the table. The sighs turn into sobs and the only thing John feels like doing is drawing Sherlock to him and offering him his shoulder to vent the pain he feels. He never expected to see Sherlock cry for someone. An all-too-human reaction that is hard to imagine in a brilliant and rational mind like his. Yet it is happening. John is holding Sherlock's sob-shaken body tight. That woman almost killed him and he mourns his loss as if he were a family member he cared so much about.</p>
<p>John can understand the reason for his pain. He too has had the opportunity to become attached to the child-Mary in these few days lived among courts, lawyers, asylum and structures to which to ask to host her. Mycroft did not put the sticks in their wheels, but he did not even try to help them, convinced that it was just an absurd madness.</p>
<p>"It is. God, if it is, ”John thinks, holding his friend close. "The best, however, are crazy" he smiles, placing a kiss between Sherlock's curls and then another and another, until the crying subsides.</p>
<p>On balance, this is the most intimate moment they experienced after that fateful Saturday evening. So far, if they have been close, it has mostly been for medical reasons. John held Sherlock in his arms to help him sit up or get up before and after the leg operation. He even helped him wash when he had plaster and now he supports him and helps him to perform the rehabilitation exercises. John  encouraged Sherlock in moments when the pain in his leg led him to swear, like John never heard him. John tried to alleviate his pains with massages and giving bottom to all the remedies he knows. This hug, however, is different. It stems from the sense of injustice for that decision, for this case that had a bad conclusion.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; I haven't save her &gt;&gt; Sherlock whispers.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; No, Sherlock. You did it. You used all your resources and you managed to save her from that asylum, to find a more human structure, to convince a jury of her innocence and the judge to give significant mitigations to her sentence. Saving her from herself, however, was such a big undertaking that it went beyond anyone's ability, perhaps even the best of specialists &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>Sherlock nods against John's shoulder. He crouches in John's arms in search of comfort and, although not the best of times, John feels great joy.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; I want to take care of Mary's funeral. I don't want that they put her in that sort of mass grave which is the asylum cemetery &gt;&gt; he whispers.</p>
<p>John agrees and places more kisses in Sherlock's hair. He stops for fear of being inappropriate. He doesn't wants to give him the idea of taking advantage of the situation.</p>
<p>Mrs. Hudson surprises them embraced, but there is not the usual smile of someone who knows a lot about her face. She became very interested in the case of 'that poor girl', as she used to define Mary, and immediately senses something happened to her. Ms Hudson sets the tea tray on the table and takes the letter. She read it, crying in turn and without saying a word goes to the door and from there goes down to her apartment.</p>
<p>John also thinks their landlady's attitude is strange. In reality there is no one thing that is not strange related to this case. They are all crying over the death of the woman who almost killed Sherlock. Perhaps the only sane is Mycroft. Or maybe he's the only one whose empathy works as a switch capable of turning on only for some people and not for others.</p>
<p>The bell rings and Lestrade's fast steps announce his arrival. He knocks on the door before entering and John sees him looking at them in amazement at finding them so close.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; What's going on? &gt;&gt; Greg asks, realizing the conditions of Sherlock.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Mary Abbott committed suicide &gt;&gt; John replies, holding his friend close. &lt;&lt; Hataway himself came here this morning to give us the news. He brought the letter she wrote before hanging himself &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Jesus &gt;&gt; says the detective, who asked them for information on the case every day. &lt;&lt; Just now that you had found the structure willing to welcome her. She didn't make it, poor woman &gt;&gt; he says, passing his hand over his unkempt beard. &lt;&lt; I ... I came to present to you a case, but ... I think it is better that I go &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; No &gt;&gt; Sherlock says, moving away from John. &lt;&lt; I need to distract myself. Just give me a moment &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>He takes the crutches and slowly, putting his foot carefully on the ground, he heads for the bathroom.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; I've never seen him so &gt;&gt; whispers Greg, taking a worried look at the doctor.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Neither do I &gt;&gt; retorts John, standing up. &lt;&lt; He says that he was unable to save her &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Jesus, he decided to help her despite what she did him. Nobody would have done the same thing &gt;&gt; exclaims Greg, incredulous as anyone who came to know what Sherlock was doing for his jailer.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; It must be a characteristic of the sociopathy behind which he hides &gt;&gt; shrugs John, pouring himself a cup of tea.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; How is it going between you and Sherlock? &gt;&gt; Greg asks him. They had little opportunity to talk to each other, not only because of the hard work John had to stay behind Sherlock, but also because the doctor didn't have the courage to face the detective after the lecture he did to him.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Well &gt;&gt; John replies with a smile. &lt;&lt; As before that Saturday &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Oh &gt;&gt; Greg exclaims, confused . &lt;&lt; You decided to pretend that nothing happened, therefore &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Actually no. We haven't talked about it &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Ah, obviously. This is typical of you &gt;&gt; retorts Greg with a chuckle. &lt;&lt; I' am happy that you are still here &gt;&gt; Greg says giving a pat on John's back. &lt;&lt; Maybe I was a little too strict with you &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; No, you've been right. I have not behaved well and I have no excuses. Sherlock gave me an opportunity and I'm doing everything possible not to throw it away. I already consider myself more than lucky &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; If I can have my say, however, you are really cute together &gt;&gt; Greg says, winking. John feels his face light up like a light bulb and can't reply.</p>
<p>Sherlock comes out of the bathroom, relieving John of the embarrassing situation. Lestrade illustrates the case and John listens to them, taking his seat in his chair. Seeing Sherlock return to the role of the  consulting detective fills him with joy. Sherlock was locked with the plaster in his leg so long time that John  feared he would go mad. Luckily helping Mary had distracted him enough. Now, deprived of the plaster, Sherlock can move, albeit with crutches, and return to investigate. John already sees his eyes light up at the idea of investigating. He definitely needs a new case.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>***</p>
<p> </p>
<p>&lt;&lt; ... and I'm sure that somehow that man has something to do with it. You can clearly see that he hates his workplace from the way he rolls up his shirt cuffs &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>Sherlock proceeds John swiftly up the 17 steps of Baker Street. John immediately noticed how fast Sherlock is to walking with crutches. John looked bad when i walked with that old stick and was slow as a turtle. The doctor sighs, realizing how even in these conditions Sherlock manages to be better than him.</p>
<p>They sit in their respective seats and the consultant doesn't seem to want to catch his breath. He diligently places his crutches on the armrest and continues to present his ideas to him. The case is quite simple even in John's eyes, but Sherlock is working on it with all of himself.</p>
<p>"You need to distract yourself," John thinks and knows Sherlock won't tell him. His friend hates when the obvious is underline.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Between one thing and another, you skipped your exercises today &gt;&gt; John points out, taking advantage of a Sherlock's short break. The consultant looks like a boy caught with his hands in the parent's wallet. He finds boring the exercises that the physiotherapist has imposed on him and tries in every way to escape. More than boring, John thinks that they are painful and that Sherlock tries not to do them so as not to show how much his leg is giving him problems. He try to appear stronger and indestructible than actually is.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Do I have to? &gt;&gt; he asks, putting on his best puppy eyes.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; You really must &gt;&gt; retorts John mercilessly.</p>
<p>He stands up and offers him his hand, but Sherlock puffs ignores it, determined to do it himself. The doctor lets him do it, aware of how this also serves to encourage him to take care of himself.</p>
<p>John encourages Sherlock to continue talking about the case even during the exercises, which helps him do them without complaining. The foot flexes, now, much better and, although the balance is still precarious, the support on both feet seems to have been regained.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; You have been very good. Have you seen how many results you have achieved? In a little while you will be able to jump on it &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; If you say so &gt;&gt; mutters Sherlock, who escapes a grimace of pain.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; We end the session, come on, and then I promise that I won't break you anymore &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Sure &gt;&gt; retorts Sherlock. So far he has never thanked John and has always addressed him in a detached way. John knows that this is part of the package. He did not expect recognition and praise. The fact that Sherlock allows him to be so close to him is already a victory for John.</p>
<p>Sherlock performs the last bend and in the way of getting up he loses his balance. John grabs him, but tumbles on one of the wooden sticks they use for some exercises. He falls back on the floor with Sherlock on him.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Oh my God, did you hurt yourself? How's the leg going? &gt;&gt; asks John worried.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; I'm fine, and you? You took a good hit &gt;&gt; Sherlock replies trying to free him of his weight. However, he loads too much on his leg and with a moan falls over John again.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Excuse me &gt;&gt; he says, embarrassed for not being able to even get up.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; No problem &gt;&gt; John reassures him, smiling.</p>
<p>Sherlock returns the smile. He pulls the tuft away from his eyes and looks away. They are so close that John can feel his breathing crash against his face.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; John &gt;&gt; whispers the consultant, looking him in the eyes. &lt;&lt; I ... I thought of something &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; What? &gt;&gt; John asks, breaking his silence.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; I thought that in these days I have moved seas and mountains to save the woman who tried to kill me and I totally ignored the man who saved me &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Oh ... well, there were priorities ... &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; No, stop it, listen to me &gt;&gt; Sherlock says, placing his hands on John's chest to support himself better. &lt;&lt; I risked dying. I got damned close this time and I only realized it by reading Mary's letter. It was very cold in that pit. God, I don't think I've ever suffered from the cold as much as that night. I still feel cold, despite now being warm. I don't know if it's normal. I know, however, that when you squeezed me this morning the cold went away. Even now, the cold is going away &gt;&gt; whispers and John feels his skin crawl. He tries to contain the effect of Sherlock's words, his closeness. John is afraid of making a bad impression, leading Sherlock to move away from him. &lt;&lt; I thought that you have always warmed me with your presence, with your words, with the laughter that we always had at the least appropriate moments and places &gt;&gt; they both chuckle without needing to bring examples. &lt;&lt; And above all, I thought about how much heat I felt that night. I thought about it while I was shaking in the cold. I thought how much I would have liked to go back there, in your arms. It doesn't matter what happened the next day. It was the last thing I thought of before slipping into my Mind Palace. A warm and beautiful memory &gt;&gt; Sherlock smiles, caressing John's amazed cheek. &lt;&lt; I cried for Mary today. For the loneliness that woman must have suffered. I know what it's like to be alone. I've been alone for a long time. Since you are here with me this loneliness is gone. It would be foolish to continue ignoring what I feel for you, to let pride and honor take away the warmth I need. I have a desperate desire for you, John &gt;&gt; Sherlock says, putting his lips against John's amazed ones.</p>
<p>Sherlock says thet his desire is desperate, but his kisses are slowly. Kisses slow and loads of passion, so different from those of that night. John lets himself be completely overwhelmed. In the flood of emotions that he feels, he tries to take the lead, but Sherlock immediately moves away from him.</p>
<p>He says nothing. He only looks at John, his face red with passion.</p>
<p>John in turn remains silent and returns to abandon himself against the floor. Only then does Sherlock approach his lips again, which torments with slow, warm kisses.</p>
<p>There isn't that saturday night  urgency, which was mostly John's and not his. There is no intention to invite John to take him, putting himself entirely at his mercy. Sherlock doesn't even seem to want to direct the game: he just dictates the timing.</p>
<p>John adjusts pleasantly to his slowness and Sherlock allows him to embrace him, to gently caress his back. To cover his neck with kisses, as John loves so much. Sherlock sighs and John, excitedly, bites him the neck, perhaps a little too loud. Fearing that he dared too much, John moves away, but he hears Sherlock laughing out loud. He places his forehead against John's. His face is serene, his smile amused.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; You are impetuous, captain &gt;&gt; Sherlock whispers on his lips before kissing them.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; I know of no other way than this &gt;&gt; John tries to justify himself.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Let me teach you another one, do you want? &gt;&gt; he whispers.</p>
<p>Sherlock's irises are of an intense blue in which John feels like drowning. The hyperactive  consulting detective is showing him the slow side of himself. He is teaching John to savor every single moment, taking the time to collect all the sensory information that this produces.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; My mind travels fast. My body, on the other hand, is damned slow &gt;&gt; Sherlock explains, whispering in his ear.</p>
<p>John isn't slow at all on similar occasions and discovers the pleasure of taking time.</p>
<p>One button after another.</p>
<p>One breath after another.</p>
<p>Sherlock's body slowly moving against his.</p>
<p>The sweat that comes from their hot bodies in contact.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Oh my God ... I feel I'm going to explode &gt;&gt; John mumbles, trying to stop himself.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; So do it &gt;&gt; encourages Sherlock him, chuckling.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; But ... no, come on, it's too early &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Too early? &gt;&gt; asks him in amazement, meeting his gaze. &lt;&lt; Why early? Do you have any commitments afterwards? &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>John blinks several times in amazement at Sherlock's incredulous expression. He laughs then, amused, shaking his head.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; No, in fact I have no commitments &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Then let yourself go &gt;&gt; Sherlock says, placing a kiss on his lips. &lt;&lt; At best we start again and then again and again, until we have enough &gt;&gt;.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; And the case? &gt;&gt; asks John, without even knowing why.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Which case? &gt;&gt; Sherlock replies, smiling.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt; Nothing, forget it &gt;&gt; John says, letting his hands slide along Sherlock's back, hot and wet with sweat .</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I want to thank all of you who have read this ff, who have left a comment or a kudos.<br/>Thank you! You are precious and you encourage me to continue translating my ff.<br/>See you soon</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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